FOREST AND S T R E A M 
1091 
WITH THE REDEYES OF LITTLE BLACK 
A STORY OF THE F1GH 11NG BLACK BASS 
AND THE TACKLE THAT TAKES THEM 
By Wandering Walton. 
L ITTLE BLACK has its origin from a spring 
that burst from a cliff, and immediately 
broadening assumes the pretensions of a 
fair-sized stream. The natives had told me 
about its bass, but whether they were the fighting 
redeyes or the big mouths in advance I gained 
no knowledge. But the moment I got into my 
waders and slipped into the cold, brawling stream, 
I thought that it was an ideal home for the 
small mouths, and that they were to be found 
there surely. 
So dense was the timber on each side of the 
stream that the sun only penetrated here and 
there through little openings. It was one of 
those little ideal waters for wading-shoal in the 
center, and within easy casting distance from 
the bank, where deep water raced along. The 
bed was full of boulders, and threatened a bath 
to the unwary angler. 
The earliness of the season and the dark water 
prompted an offering of Yellow Mays, tied sal¬ 
mon pattern; and the first cast brought an im¬ 
mediate response from an undersized redeye, 
which for what he lacked in strength he amply 
made up in agility and resoluteness. His first 
appearance out of the shaded water determined 
me to give him a little slack. The wise little 
fellow availed himself of it promptly, and in a 
single aerial flight freed himself from the hook. 
I worked on down stream, feeling my way with 
caution. Such excessively shaded water for once 
brought into exhibition a latent timidity ’gainst 
willingly participating in a venture over my 
waders. But luck came my way, and I brought 
two fair-sized small mouths to creel within a 
short distance. 
At an abrupt bend in the river it began to as¬ 
sume different characteristics. The boulders 
were infrequent, and small rocks seemed every 
fifty yards or so to accumulate in a line, which 
formed a miniature dam across the river. It was 
a succession of little falls. In working my flies 
among ideal places I had many responses, but 
the fish ran exceedingly small, but in almost un¬ 
believable numbers. Sometimes as many as fifty 
together would charge at my flies, and the most 
inconspicuous little one invariably was captured. 
At once this induced me to try tactics of another 
sort, and I shifted my choice to a less gaudy 
pair of Silver Doctors. 
A yard beyond the first fall I sent my cast, 
and, as I recovered, there was a great swirl of 
water. I recovered promptly. It promised a 
fish of some consequence. So I waited until 
everything had resumed a tranquil state, and sent 
the flies again in the same place. Then came 
the charge. A great, agile, dark bronze fish 
lunged at the dropper, and tore down-stream 
with it. It exerted all my strength to stop him; 
and then realizing the limitations of a light rod, 
line and fine leader, I gave him plenty of line. 
What a grand vault he made from the water, as 
the shimmer of the spray mingled with the 
splotches of sunlight! Only for a moment did 
he seem to care for the restraint, but charged 
petulantly for the deep water along the right 
bank. Upon attaining this desired fighting 
ground, he executed those spiral dives that in¬ 
variably puzzle the most experienced wielder of 
the rod. But soon I regained my squandered 
line, and brought him to the surface, fighting, 
mad, in a series of graceful leaps. Promptly he 
went for the bottom again, but I only permitted 
him a bit of line, well aware of his intent, if he 
could only gain some obstruction of rock or sub¬ 
merged log in the bed of the stream. This check 
enraged the fish. And for an instant I thought 
we had parted company. But it was only the 
rascal’s determination to change his route of bat¬ 
tle. He came directly toward me, giving me all 
the fast work in taking in slack line that I could 
well care for. Luck was my way; for I coaxed 
him from boulders, until finally the lithe rod 
persuaded him of its mastery. He looked to 
weigh fully four pounds. 
The day wore on rapidly—as all days pass on 
a stream when there are no extraneous thoughts 
to mar the pastime—but my Silver Doctors lost 
their potency when morning yielded to after¬ 
noon. Every light-colored fly that I tried brought 
myriads of mischievous bass of very small size 
that wanted to test their prowess. And when 
these failed uncountable armies of brilliantly col¬ 
ored sunfish tried to eat up my flies. No large 
fish had an opportunity to contemplate an at¬ 
tack amid these greedy, militant hordes. 
At the time fish refuse to rise everybody has 
a favorite fly upon which they depend, even 
though the little ones inexorably torment his 
cast. One year there is a certain favorite, then 
another, but of all in my experience in fishing 
none have performed so faithfully for me as 
the humble salmon fly Butcher. There is some¬ 
thing about its sombre colors and contour that 
make it irresistible. And I chuckled to myself as 
I peeped into my fly book, fully prepared to de¬ 
lude myself into the conviction that there might 
be one that had never felt the jaws of a small 
mouth bass. There were just three, my only 
three, and very much chewed flies they were, 
though they reposed almost reverently in the 
same compartment. I selected the first that I 
touched, and with some verbal homage to its 
former achievements, I affixed it to the leader, 
and proceeded down the grumbling shoal. The 
water at once became deeper, but fast enough for 
me to begin to exercise more vigilance at every 
step. 
It was the fifth cast that brought the monster. 
At first he merely flung longing eyes. At the 
second he failed to regard it with the slightest 
movement. The third one he bolted for it but 
quickly turned to his headquarters. The fourth 
brought a sagacious exhibition of recognition of 
my presence. Like all big fish, there was some¬ 
thing about that black bass that made me want 
to tie up with him; and now that the innocent¬ 
appearing little Butcher had brought him from 
the dark water, it was but loyal to afford it one 
more opportunity. 
I left the water and moved some fifty yards 
down-stream. At once I took to water again, 
and began to forge my way back as quickly as 
I could. When within easy casting distance I 
shot my dependable Butcher in the small mouth's 
haunts. It began to float down in the grasp of 
the current, and I commenced to retrieve the 
unrecognized lure. Something inspired a small 
sunfish with the notion to seize it for the after¬ 
noon meal, for it came in one of those jerky lit¬ 
tle hesitant advances. Then I saw it disappear 
in the sudden seething of the water. I never 
saw that small mouth take the fly—so intent was 
I on the antics of the little fish. But in the in¬ 
stant I had the forethought to sink the steel, and 
then the battler madly burst on the surface. I 
gazed down-stream, giving that red-eyed terror 
all the line he wanted, providing he did not get 
too greedy about it, for the sport of the thing, 
as he rushed on quite a ways from me, caused 
me to endeavor to turn him. My, how his re¬ 
monstrance strained that rod! I think it sensed 
every ounce of him, and I again gave him play. 
That fish had no limit to his craving for enam¬ 
eled line, for he persisted on down-stream; and 
just as often as I turned him inevitably came his 
instant rebuke with a mad flight in another di¬ 
rection. There was only one way to whip him— 
I saw that then—and that was to exercise pa¬ 
tience, and to follow on as often as the length 
of line demanded. - ~.*q 
My mind must have been all on that fish, for 
I know I would have given no attention to the 
stream ahead, had not the noise of the rapid an¬ 
nounced some of its terrors. White water was 
but a hundred feet in advance of me, and this 
intractable fish was resolute about reaching it 
at all hazards. It was no time to spare tackle, 
and I gave him the strength of the rod against 
his. Enraged he leaped angrily from the water, 
and on return manouevred his utmost for a fight¬ 
ing position close to the rapid. But the rod had 
more strength to it than I had given it credit; 
and it acted its part nobly. Twice the powerful 
fish almost got the best of me, though each time 
through good fortune I turned him from the 
white water. 
Presently another humor seized him, and much 
as he seemed to gain hope from it, it inspired 
him in proportion. Working up-stream, he fought 
in circles, and then strove for a sunken log along 
side of the bank. So far the rod had fought 
him at every turn, now it was to deny him even 
this possible retreat. And then it came to the 
real test, I gave him no more line and fought him 
simply with the merits of the tackle. At once 
his circles contracted. His aerial flights though 
more frequent became but mere flounces. Final¬ 
ly he took to quiet water at my persuasion, but 
reluctantly yielding distance at every turn of 
my reel. 
A moment later I extended him at full length 
on the damp lespedeza. Then I gazed at the 
rough green-clad hills, then back at the fish and 
the pretty little river, and I realized that some¬ 
times the smallest bass streams yield the largest 
trophies. 
