FOREST AND STREAM 
1045 
A WOMAN FISHING TACKLE DRESSER 
Miss M. C. Thorburn, in Her Workshop at Edinburgh, Scotland, Making Salmon Flies. 
American sportsmen have grown accustomed to seeing fields of outdoor recreation and activity 
they once thought restricted to mere man, invaded—and successfully, too—by their new partner in 
fun, the sportswoman. _ , 
Many of them, however, probably do not realize that the broadening out of woman’s activities 
in the countries at war has included her entry into the field of dressing expert fishing tackle for 
anglers all over the world. 
The picture shows Miss M. C. Thorburn in her workshop at Edinburgh, Scotland, dressing spring 
salmon flies. She conducts the entire business herself, which besides the making of both wet and dry 
flies for trout and salmon fishing, includes the manufacture and sale of trout and salmon gut casts, 
rods, nets, and other equipment for the expert angler. 
Suddenly a sharp whistle, from somewhere be¬ 
hind me, was quickly answered by another from 
across the river. I knew that it was poach¬ 
ers, signalling to one another. Listening in¬ 
tently, I heard the rustle of alders, followed by 
the thump of rubber boots as a man pushed 
through the bushes on the other bank. It was 
followed immediately by the slosh of wading 
legs. Two forms met, well out from shore. 
Without exchanging a word, each waded back to 
his own side again. 
The slap that the head-rope of a net makes 
upon the water reached my ears, and the swish 
of the twine grew nearer and nearer. A ghostly 
figure loomed up in front of me, not ten feet 
away. The time for action had arrived. Crouch¬ 
ing low, a couple of side steps brought me near 
enough to charge. He received squarely the full 
impact of my two hundred pounds, where my 
left shoulder caught him in the ribs. 
The blow sent him sprawling on his back into 
the river. I grabbed the rope in my left hand 
as he let go of it. Not until he started to rise, 
gulping and sputtering, did I recognize that it 
was Gaspard, my visitor of the afternoon, who 
I knew now I had rightly suspected of designs 
upon my salmon. 
No wounded bull moose ever made a mightier 
racket than that Frenchman, as he struggled and 
floundered toward the bank. The thump and 
pound of his rubber boots did not cease as he 
tore through the thicket, until his form was out¬ 
lined for an instant against the sky high up on 
the bank. And with an imprecation hurled back 
over his shoulder, he was gone. 
As I stood there in the water, slightly taken 
off my guard by this hurried retreat of one of 
my antagonists, the rope I still held in my hand 
tightened with a jerk that almost took me with 
it. I made a grab for it as it slid past me 
through the water, and caught it again. The 
tug of war which followed was probably as 
desperate as any ever pulled by two swarthy 
anchormen. 
The poacher won. I could not hold him. In 
brute strength he had me beaten. To escape a 
useless ducking, I let go. 
As the net swished out of my grasp and was 
dragged hurriedly up the other bank, there 
flashed through my mind a vision of the lower 
bridge. If I could reach it first, and intercept 
the poacher, his net might yet be mine. He must 
cross the bridge, I remembered, to reach the 
main road and a clear run for home. At the 
risk of eyes and limbs, I plunged down the nar¬ 
row sheep trail, running through inky darkness, 
stumbling through thickets and over boulders. 
The sound of other running feet brought me up 
sharply, as I struggled, breathless, up the em¬ 
bankment and onto the bridge. 
Another instant, and we met. We grappled, 
fell and rolled over and over along the rough 
planking of the bridge. Every muscle in my 
body strained and ached, from that impact in 
the water, and from the desperate effort we each 
made now for an advantage. 
But I saw that the huge Frenchman’s purpose 
was to force me to the end of the bridge, and 
off it into the roaring, rushing river twenty feet 
below. Desperately I writhed and twisted, but 
I could feel that he was gradually forcing me 
beneath him, and would soon be on top. The 
stale, smell of long-munched tobacco came to me 
as his teeth gripped my ear in his frenzy. 
Then luck came to my aid; my right foot 
scraped against a spike protruding through the 
planks. 
It is an ancient saying that a drowning man 
will grasp at a straw. However true it may be, 
there is no doubt that I felt in that rusty spike 
one last desperate chance for safety from a 
bad fall and a wetting, if not from drowning. 
Pressing my heel against it, and exerting all 
my strength, I forced myself, by a strenuous 
sidewise kick, on top again. The poacher’s head 
and shoulders now hung over the bridge’s side. 
Mercilessly .1 pressed the thumb of my right 
hand into his jugular. He squealed. 
There are certain incidents that happen to most 
of us in this world that we never forget. In 
my own mind, these words must always remain 
among my most vivid recollections: “For God’s 
sake, don’t kill me!” 
He blurted on: “The net—it’s under the 
bridge—” 
Our muscles relaxed, and we stood up. Then 
I knew him. He was the village blacksmith. 
No wonder his strength had surprised me! The 
village blacksmith: “de boss man dere,” the 
natives proclaimed him, in feats of strength at 
all the country fairs for miles around! 
Without a word, we parted. And sure enough, 
the net was stuffed securely into, a crevice be¬ 
neath the bridge. Trudging wearily back up to 
the road, I leaned against the pole fence to 
regain a little strength, and let my racing blood 
cool down. From the road I could see across 
the fields to where a light in the little cottage 
beside the smithy glimmered for a few minutes 
and then went out. 
All the weariness of that whole long day and 
strenuous night came down upon me then, as 
I staggered along the dark highway, half drag¬ 
ging and half carrying the confiscated net. No 
house ever seemed more like home to me than 
Henri’s did that night. Reaching it, I locked the 
net safely in the ice-house, and crept silently 
up to bed. 
In the morning, a scheme that my day of hard 
work and excitement had not seen mature, flashed 
through my mind. If my salmon seemed still 
determined to mock all my temptings, and con¬ 
tinued his derisive antics around the fly, would 
not a dropper-fly be his undoing, with a naked 
hook dangling from the leader? 
But I could not quite smother a feeling that 
such a trick was a little unworthy of a battle 
with this, the king of all sporting fish, and so 
it was a silver doctor that I used to attract 
him from his hiding place. When he had risen 
once, and slid confidently down past the line, 
I substituted for the doctor the trick leader with 
its double hooks. 
The first couple of casts, with the line thus 
accoutred, seemed to puzzle him. Then there 
was a souse! upward, and the same returning 
splash as before. A quick twitch of the rod, 
and the big hook caught him just behind the 
dorsal fin. Over and over he flopped, turning 
somersaults, jump after jump. A crazy fish, he 
streaked down the river. 
After him I pounded, waded, slipped and slid. 
By the time his first run was finished, we were 
a long way apart. As he sulked on the bottom, I 
took advantage of his ill-humor and reeled in 
quickly. A little extra pressure on the rod, and 
he was away, on a long lightning-quick run; 
with a leap at the end. 
On down the river I struggled, jumping from 
boulder to boulder, until I worked over to the 
bank again and my feet were on dry land. Here 
it was all clear bank and river, with the excep¬ 
tion of a gaspereau net across the river, which 
my salmon jumped. 
One more brief run, and we were at the estu¬ 
ary of the stream. Where it met the flood tide, 
there was plenty of water and no obstructions. 
Even with these circumstances in my favor, it 
was a whole half hour more before the rod won 
and the gaff clipped home. 
Laid out on the green moss, he certainly was 
a thing of beauty. 
His weight? 
Twelve and a half pounds exactly. 
Thousands of wild geese have made their 
homes on farms in North Dakota, and grain 
fields uncovered by wind storms are being com¬ 
pletely devastated. Under the state law geese are 
protected from attacks by hunters and cannot be 
ousted. 
