Jan. 26, 1907.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
129 
tow it toward the Nanticoke, it being calm 
weather and hot. 
We had to pass through a fleet of oyster 
tongers on a “rock,” and as we passed through 
them, the captain shouted to the tongers: “Buy 
feesh '1 Buy feesh!” 
Several of the tongers stopped us, and sales 
were made at ten cents a hundred herring. As 
we cleared the rock, far up Monie Bay appeared 
a little gasolene launch, bearing down upon the 
fleet. One tonger saw the boat long before we 
did, apparently, for it was up anchor and haste 
away as fast as oars could drive. The launch 
came rapidly—eleven miles an hour—and through 
our glasses we could see a gray-whiskered man 
examining our boat through his own. 
“Hit’s the police boat Woolfert,” the junker 
said. “Captain Bob Walters knows me. He 
thinks we’ve got oyster culls aboard, and he’s 
going to look us over.” 
Coming up at full speed, the police boat swept 
past us, the inspectors scanning the cargo of old 
ropes, iron, and what not, and getting a look 
and a whiff of the fish, upon which the boat 
sheered about and sailed away through the oyster 
fleet still at full speed, and’ finally disappeared 
in the distance. 
We got the batteau to Roaring Point, and there 
Rusk looked around to advertise his engines. 
A boy there said his father was thinking about 
buying a gasolene engine, and we waited for 
the man to come up from the tonging beds. 
Toward night the fleet came, making a beautiful 
sight, and when the tonger landed. Rusk tackled 
him. Yes, he wanted to get an engine, and 
thought of putting it in his canoe. He studied 
it, examined it, and considered deeply. He put 
leading questions to Rusk, to find out if he was 
reliable, and at last took him away where they 
could talk quietly and not be heard. Here he 
opened negotiations with Rusk, for the purpose 
of having him make a bargain with the makers 
of auto engines by which the tonger could sell 
a revolutionary invention to them. When Rusk 
came back, he sat silent for a time. 
“What do you think he had in mind? He 
wanted me to get my companies to buy his plan 
to run boats by propellers in the air, instead of 
in the water. He said there were millions in 
it.” 
Then Rusk chuckled, “I quit him pretty quick 
after that,” he said., 
It had been a rather disappointing trip so far 
as selling gasolene engines was concerned. But 
unquestionably Rusk had opened the eyes of 
many fishermen and oystermen to their value, and 
his cards scattered from the river Wye to the 
Wicomico, already began to bring questions as 
to what kind of engine should be put into such 
and such a sort of boat. It was needful that the 
engines should be very cheap and easily manipu¬ 
lated to meet the demands of the islanders, and 
after our first tunings up, Rusk had gotten his 
specimen into such condition that a boy could 
run it, and so that any man able to turn a key 
wrench could take it apart and put it together 
again; things that appealed to those who were 
at all acquainted with the eccentricities of the 
gas motors. And now, too, when we started we 
went, and when we stopped we could start again 
when we pleased. We'were far and away better 
off as to going anywhere than the men with sails, 
which the sailors saw; and doubtless in a very 
few years Chesapeake Bay will be overrun with 
gasolenes, and the hundreds of sails which one 
sometimes sees on the dredging grounds will be 
a thing of the past. Perhaps this is a misfor¬ 
tune; one of the great beauties of the bay will 
have departed, not to return until the bay men 
are yachtsmen, delighting in sailing for its own 
sake. Rusk was a kind of pioneer, and so my 
trip was a good one to make. 
We were now at the edge of the mainland. 
There was a real hill up which the road had to 
climb from the steamboat wharf, and the houses 
were larger, but not neater, than those of the 
islands. We were very close to the line be¬ 
tween baymen and farmer. Out on an island 
near Roaring Point was a house on a bit of a 
knoll. I asked a man if there was much land 
there? 
“There’s a hundred acres.” 
“Any good land?” 
“Yes sirree! That man’s got two acres that’s 
the best garden anywhere around here. ’ 
Another man on the same dock looked with¬ 
out enthusiasm toward the island, but when he 
gazed toward the mainland, he waxed eloquent 
over the great farms and orchards there. The 
contrast was startling. Evidently the trip up the 
Wicomico River to the railroad, where I was 
to start homeward, would not be uninteresting 
after the view I’d had of the island people. 
Raymond S. Spears. 
Camp Don’t Hurry. 
VII.—His Father’s Fish Basket. 
Henry and I were wandering through a bush 
lot which skirted the south bank of the Esopus, 
in quest of sassafras root, when we came to a 
cradle-knoll covered with young wintergreens., 
We sat down on the mossy; cushion and ate 
our fill of the pungent leaves, sandwiched oc¬ 
casionally with the bright red fruit of the last 
year’s plant and feebly flavored partridge ber¬ 
ries. Some one had worked hard to clear that 
field of timber and only left an occasional big 
maple and oak standing. Then he let it all 
grow up to brush again. 
We saw Robert tramping along the path 
near us under one of the solitary maples, and 
looking down at something; on the ground, ex¬ 
claimed, “Well, you poor little fool, you’ve fell 
out of bed, and can’t get back.” From watch¬ 
ing the ground, he raised his head, and looked 
long and carefully into the tree, continuing his 
remarks: “It’s a long way up there, and your 
mother ought to have more sense than to 
build a nest so high, but if I leave you here a 
dog or a cat will get you sure.” 
Pulling off his wading boots, he picked up 
an object which he put into his coat pocket, and 
then began to climb the tree. It taxed his iron 
muscles to the utmost to drag even his light, 
wiry body up to the limbs, but he did it, and 
then crawling among the branches to the 
top he deposited a featherless little robin in 
its nest. The descent was not yet finished when 
two more fell from the same nest, and lay 
squeaking and fluttering among the dry leaves. 
“I know what’s the matter with you,” he 
said, as coming down, he stuffed them into his 
pocket, “your mother’s. got killed, and. you’re 
so hungry you can’t lie still. Well! it s too 
bad, but I’ll give you one more square feed 
before you die.” 
Turning over a few stones, he found some 
angleworms, and climbed to the nest again. The 
feeding was scarcely finished when the old robin 
came flying homeward, and set up a terrible 
commotion about what she thought was an in¬ 
trusion. While on the second errand of mercy 
he caught the sleeve of his shirt, and tore a 
good sized hole in it. As he collected his fish¬ 
ing tackle, and was ready to start, he looked 
up into the tree and called out, “Now, old girl, 
you better be a little more prompt with your 
meals if you want to keep your family at home, 
and I most ought to make you sew up this 
tear.” 
At supper Henry asked: “Robert, what s the 
matter with your shirt?” 
“Caught it on a bush,” was the laconic reply. 
One day while wandering about the village 
store I chanced to notice lying upon a table 
devoted to souvenirs and other trinkets a small 
but gorgeously colored feather duster. It was 
only intended as an ornament, and looked like 
a cross between a bird-of-paradise and a dia¬ 
mond-dye advertisement. After a little inspec¬ 
tion, I decided that if one should use it to se¬ 
lect fly wings from, he need be in no fear of 
exhausting his variety for some time. I had 
always wanted to try fly-tying, so I bought it, 
together with some snelled hooks and a spool 
of silk. My equipment now seemed complete, 
except that while on the way to camp I re¬ 
membered that there was no hackle. I decided 
to ask Robert to court me a lock from some 
auburn-haired lady, but Terry came running 
toward me just then, and I noticed that in his 
coat I possessed an abundant supply. 
It seemed best to at first make one like the 
boughten article, so that I could get used to 
it, and at the same time have something by 
which to measure the degree of success.. The 
work started off flatteringly, and when it had 
progressed far enough to put on the hackle, I 
whistled to Terry, and nipped from his back 
the small amount which I needed. I had never 
appreciated what a clumsy thing a man’s hand 
is until I attempted to put those few short hairs 
where they belonged on the hook. 
One by one the others abandoned whatever 
they were doing, and seated themselves around 
the table where I was working. Henry, after 
picking up the duster and giving it a rather 
critical inspection, said: “I guess a ,fellow 
could tie a buff cochin rooster out of this.” 
“I think that’s what he is trying,” Robert re¬ 
plied, without looking up. 
