After Bass. 
Mullan, Idaho, July io .—Editor Forest and 
Stream: Down where the Coeur d’Alene leaves 
the Bitter Root and spreads out into hundreds 
of little lakes there are three elements that com¬ 
bine to make the ideal spot for an outing. They 
are Mr. and Mrs. Snider and several large well 
fed black bass that Snider insists he has staked 
out in the water for the especial amusement of 
his guests. Sometime in the years that are now 
gone, some enterprising sportsman planted a 
small supply of bass in these waters. The true 
Westerner does not “copper” to the bass family 
to any great extent. Your true Western sports¬ 
man sticks by his trout pretty closely. The 
bass, however, in these waters soon wrought 
destruction to the trout, which was just as well, 
for if they had not the lead silt from the mines 
would have done so. 
The objective point is Medimont. The little 
village nestles at the base of a small round 
mountain of the same name, where in times past 
the red men came to worship the savage gods 
and offer up devotion to their deities of water 
and wold. Uncle Samuel now has all the red 
men safely anchored on reservations, and the 
savage altars have fallen into decay. It was 
indeed a beautiful spot where the Indian built 
his fane, and the white man did well to choose 
it as ' a place to worship his god of the full 
creel. It would require the brush of an artist 
to depict the country as it is. Let us in our 
imagination climb the round cone of the Medi¬ 
mont and from its summit view the miniature 
world at our feet. Upon the very pinnacle of 
the little hill lies the grave of the last of the 
chiefs of the people who formerly dwelt here. 
The good Jesuit father erected a wooden cross 
at the head of the grave, for the chief, before he 
passed, laid aside the worship of his fathers and 
sought the bosom of the church, d he cross 
has fallen, and in a few years nothing but the 
rude pile of stones and tangled growth of black¬ 
berry vines will serve to mark the spot. Near 
the graves stands all that is left of the heathen 
altar. It, too, like the savage whose shrine it 
was, has all but passed away. One gazes at the 
burnt, discolored stones that formed the rude 
altar and muses upon what might possibly have 
been the offering to the heathen gods. 
The winding Coeur d’Alene comes down from 
the distant blue hills of the range and creeps in 
many a sinuous curve through the valley. It 
strikes the base of the mountain and winds in 
a broad curve around the base, then once more 
sweeps away down the broad valley, a thread of 
silver in the sunlight. On every side stretch the 
most picturesque little lakes. There are in sight 
from where we stand no less than six of these, 
every one with its myriads of lusty bass. They 
are alder-bordered and dotted with wooded 
islands against which the wavelets ripple and 
murmur all the summer day, inviting the tired 
pilgrim to stretch himself beneath the shade of 
one of the towering pines and allow the sound 
to lull him to forgetfulness of the world. 
So much for the scenery; to the fisherman 
the finny inhabitants are of more interest. The 
eastern angler who fishes industriously all day 
in a broiling sun for a little string of diminutive 
bass would find himself transported into the 
angler’s seventh heaven—provided there is any 
sort of heaven allotted to anglers—could he but 
plant himself in one of Snider’s boats and haul 
in, hand over hand, or any old way to get him 
in, one of the five-pound large-mouths that John 
claims to have staked out for his especial 
friends, of whom you are one, gentle reader, if 
you worship at the shrine of the red gods. 
At the risk of being thought a flatterer, I 
must give you a brief description of mine host 
and his frau. I half suspect that somewhere 
back in the Snider family there is some of the 
Teuton blood. I am inclined to this belief from 
the fact that John, after his day on the lake is 
done, likes to sit with a friend beneath the vine- 
covered porch of the hostelry and talk over the 
events of the day, mellowed by a stein or two. 
Another suspiciously Teutonic symptom is 
that, no matter how many Havanas you may 
urge upon him, he likes best a long black and 
particularly strong pipe, without which he had 
as soon think of leaving his fishing tackle, when 
starting on the lake. Mrs. Snider is too modest 
by half. I am sure if she ever learns that I wish 
that my own good wife could fry bass one-half 
as well as she does, she would blush. The cul¬ 
inary arrangements of that hotel are not gotten 
up for the dyspeptic nor the dilletante who must 
needs have his appetite pandered. No, the fare 
is spread for good honest fishermen who bring 
to the board an appetite like a Kansas harvest 
hand. If the fisherman aforesaid desires to win 
and hold the everlasting enmity of Mrs. Snider, 
just let him come in from a day on the lakes 
and not do what she deems full and ample 
justice to the fare. Let me add in passing, that 
Mrs. Snider never has had any occasion to fall 
out with me on that score. 
When it comes to whipping a grizzly king out 
over the boiling waters of a trout stream I do 
not care for the society of the gentler sex. 
White blackbirds are just about as rare as the 
gentlewoman who knows how to fish for trout. 
When it comes to trolling from a boat, how¬ 
ever, the lady who permits me to eat at her table 
twenty-one times each week yields the palm to 
no one. Therefore, when Snider’s dulcet tones 
come floating up the Bell copper, informing 
me that the bass are striking, Mrs. M. gives me 
pointers on getting into her fishing togs, pack¬ 
ing a suit case with the few things necessary 
for an outing, and getting down to the stage 
office. I usually bring up the rear with the 
junior scion of my particular branch of the 
family, who bids fair to become another chip. 
We usually meet friend Newell and his family, 
for John has also apprised him that there are 
things doing. We meet at the lake shore where 
the boathouse stands and without waiting to 
more than shake hands, set sail for the bass 
lands. 
It is spring and the big fellows are lying 
among the rushes along the “borrow pits” ex¬ 
cavated by the graders years ago. In the season 
of the spring freshets these borrow pits over¬ 
flow and become ideal feeding grounds for the 
fish. Mr. and Mrs. Newell lead, and while 
Newell bends to the oars, Mrs. N. trails a hun¬ 
dred feet of line over the stern and gazes 
pensively at the rippling water. There comes a 
flash, a struggle and a yell from Mrs. N. that in¬ 
dicates that there is something on the line, and 
we are forced to conclude that some one of the 
especially selected and stall-fed bass that John 
keeps has tackled a wooden minnow that is 
just about like landing in a cactus bed from the 
hurricane deck of a Texas pony. Pretty soon 
we see Newell prancing about in his boat, hold¬ 
ing up for inspection a monster fish that is 
vainly endeavoring to prod one of the several 
dozen hooks with which that troll is decorated 
into George’s shrinking anatomy. So. absorbed 
has Mrs. M. been in the proceedings in the ad¬ 
vance boat that she all but lands in the lake 
when there comes a tug at the line which she 
has for the time forgotten. The bass proves 
just a little too much for her skill and she re¬ 
luctantly yields the struggle over. The lusty 
fellow dies hard, but die he must. Turning 
upon his side he comes protesting up alongside 
to be unceremoniously lifted into the boat. 
It is a whole lot of fun to row all over the 
lake with a lady, but when that lady is your wife 
and the halvcon days of courtship have long 
since faded down the River of Time, you can 
get along with a very moderate indulgence in 
the sport. It is not to be wondered at that after 
our respective wives had captured several bass 
each that we gently hinted that the hote 
verandah was a very comfortable spot to rest 
from their labors. The last we saw of the twain 
they were meandering up the railroad track ex¬ 
changing mutual confidences. ... ,. 
We resorted to hand casting, with the result 
that when Mrs. Snider had blown the dinner 
horn until she was black in the face, we stag¬ 
gered into the hotel with a lot of bass. 
It had to rain; it never fails. All I have to 
do in the middle of August when the sun is 
shining its hottest, is to suggest going fishing, 
and it immediately clouds up and rains, 
rather like it, though. It takes a whole lot of 
rain to bluff a true disciple. We fished throug 1 
the rain though with but indifferent success 
But had we not all the fish we needed. That 
afternoon John told us of an extra bunch that 
he had staked out over across the river m an¬ 
other lake and advised that we go over and get 
them. We rowed across one lake, pulled the 
boat over the meadow, rowed across the stream, 
hauled the boat through another half-tnile of 
meadow and fished all the afternoon for one 
little measly bass. Some other fellows had 
got ahead af us and swiped the cache. Tired. 
Well I guess we were. When we reached head¬ 
quarters that night Newell, who is only five 
feet eight, was covering the last half-mile of 
the rear, while I, who am six feet four, was 
moving on the supper table with gigantic strides. 
