His Biggest Catch. 
Richmondville was a maze of spring glory. 
The hillsides and dooryards were aflame with 
the pink and white blossoms of the apple trees 
whose mellow fragrance was carried to every 
nook and corner of the town by a soft breeze 
that swept up the Schoharie Valley. The long, 
symmetrical rows of maples that mark an arbi¬ 
trary dividing line between spacious lawns and 
narrow thoroughfares were bursting into leafy 
bowers of green. The clear bell-like notes of 
a blacksmith’s hammer beating a rhythmical tat¬ 
too on an anvil was the only sound to disturb 
the peaceful quiet morning as I stepped from 
the Herald office into the warm May sunshine 
and strolled leisurely toward the railway station. 
As I passed the Farmer House a loud hail ar¬ 
rested my steps and I turned just as “Fat Art,” 
the proprietor, thrust his portly shoulders from 
a window on the upper floor and called, ‘‘Just 
getting ready . to fish the Carlville. Can’t you 
go along?” 
Nothing loth, I agreed to join him and hast¬ 
ened home to prepare for the trip. 
Striking the stream near the village outskirts, 
we followed its tortuous course up the valley 
into the low foothills and rolling green fields, 
frequently diverting our steps to wander along 
brooks, winding down from the hills, through 
beds of cowslips and plowed fields, or crossing 
meadows of daisies, to cast our flies in the minia¬ 
ture pools where trout lurked. 
After three hours of indifferent sport I grew 
tired and was on the point of proposing our re¬ 
turn home when Art took a little trout from a 
pool I had just abandoned. 
His catch revived my waning spirits, and after 
careful deliberation I changed my flies, putting 
on a royal coachman^ a yellow hackle and a 
queen of the waters and hastened to a beech- 
shaded pool. Crossing the creek, I advanced 
cautiously and made a long cast up stream, drop¬ 
ping my flies lightly near a board fence half 
buried in a bank of gravel. With a sudden rush 
a fourteen-inch trout seized the yellow hackle 
and disappeared. By quick action I steered the 
trout into the current and carefully worked it 
to a shallow rift below, where I secured it. 
Elated, I cast again and in less than ten 
minutes a smaller trout was flopping in my 
creel, a victim of the seductive yellow hackle. 
Art coming up, I showed my catch and laugh¬ 
ingly suggested that he try his luck with a beetle 
and a bent pin and alder rod. He took my sar¬ 
castic raillery with his customary good nature, 
repeating the old saw, “He who laughs last 
laughs best.” We made but four small addi¬ 
tional catches before turning down stream, then 
in silence we fished homeward, enjoying the 
stream’s lulling murmurs and the awakening 
chorus of frogs and peepers that combined with 
mysterious voices of nature in filling the vitaliz¬ 
ing mountain air with all the dreamy notes of 
spring twilight. 
The last rays of sunset were merging into 
dusk, illuminating the western sky with a soft 
crimson glow, when we reached Rightmeyer’s 
Pond within a stone’s throw of home. 
I paused to make a last cast in a promising 
pool near the intake and Art skirted the shore 
to the bush-covered bluffs of the spillway, which 
was noisily discharging a full flow of water into 
the basin twenty feet below. Crawling into a 
clump of scrub hemlock, he dropped his flies 
over the rocks. No sooner had they touched 
water than he let out a lusty shout for help. 
Holding his catch as well as possible, he wormed 
his way through the bushes to the apron. For 
a moment he stood hesitating at its edge, then 
leaped to its broad slippery surface. I was 
amazed at his recklessness, and fully expecting 
to see him disappear over the falls, ran forward. 
Luckily he secured a foothold in the half de¬ 
cayed timber and the battle began in earnest. 
Taking in the situation, I dropped my rod and 
creel, and scrambling over a barbed wire fence, 
made a wide detour around the rocks that 
hem in the pool. In the narrow gorge I 
caught a silvery gleam as the trout leaped high 
in an effort to shake himself free. In spite of 
Art’s valiant work, the trout gained the current 
which sweeps in a semi-circle along the moss- 
covered rocks and headed for a mass of drift¬ 
wood near the outlet. 
Art’s rod bent like whalebone as he jammed 
his thumb against the reel in a determined effort 
to check this rush, but the fish struggled for¬ 
ward, until at last the steady pressure told, and 
he suffered himself to be guided to smooth water. 
Now leaping, now sulking, he circled, never for 
a moment relaxing his efforts to gain the drift¬ 
wood and freedom. Art slipped slightly on his 
perilous footing, but his skill with the rod saved 
the day. 
Knowing the fight must terminate close to the 
cataract, I worked my way along the rocks to 
a narrow slimy ledge. For twenty minutes I 
stood there watching the contest while the spray 
drenched me to the skin. Then the trout’s strug¬ 
gles became weaker, and with a last rush he 
broke water and turned on his side, exhausted, 
and I slipped the net under him. 
“Puts that measly little pair of yours in the 
discard,” laughed Art as we stood in the center 
of an admiring group at the Farmer House. His 
prize tipped the scales at five pounds and Art 
is still reckoning time from the date of his big¬ 
gest catch. Carl Schurz Shafer. 
Fishing at Palm Beach. 
Palm Beach, Fla., March 4.— Editor Forest 
and Stream: Commodore Ward and his guest, 
Willard Brown, both of New York city, made a 
record catch of fish recently. The weather was 
fine and Capt. Geo. Williams took the party to 
one of his favorite fishing reefs outside. The 
fish bit good and although several large ones 
got away after being hooked, they returned with 
five amberjack weighing 375 pounds, three 
grouper weighing 112 pounds and a turtle weigh- 
• ing 362 pounds. This is the largest catch that 
has been brought in from the lake this season. 
Wm. Dietsch. 
A Little Talk About Fly-Fishing. 
I think that I wrote to Forest and Stream 
last spring about the deer that appeared in the 
sunny slope of a mountain near Claryville, in 
Sullivan county, N. Y. Recently ten deer were 
observed in the same place and scarcely a day 
passes that two or more cannot be seen from the 
village street. 
The snow melts early on this spot and the 
deer enjoy the warmth, often lying down and 
chewing the cud, I presume, although food must 
be far from abundant. There is much snow in 
the woods, although the sleighing is nearly 
ruined. Winter broke Up Feb. 26, and for nearly 
a week we had rain or mist and melting snow. 
The streams became rushing torrents, the water 
draining rapidly from the frozen ground. It 
seems a great waste of moisture when one re¬ 
members the prolonged drouths of the last two 
years. Many farmers were compelled to draw 
water from a distance for their stock as late as 
December of last year, and this was true of 
localities that had never suffered in the same 
way before. 
I hope that the trout have come through the 
hard winter in fair condition. The January thaw 
with accompanying freshets, ice jams and the 
sudden breaking up of the heavy ice must have 
been very trying to their nerves, if nothing 
worse. The last thaw has been more gradual, it 
seems to me, and I trust that no serious dam¬ 
age has been done either to the streams or the 
fish. Present indications seem to point to an 
early spring, but no one would be much surprised 
by the return of real wintry weather. Thou¬ 
sands of anglers are thinking of this region just 
now, as it is easy of access. The number of men 
who visit Ulster and Sullivan counties in the 
spring is surprisingly large. Such streams as 
the Beaverkill and Neversink are lined with 
fishermen during the few weeks that are sup¬ 
posed to cover the best of the sport. For the 
man who has but two or three days at his dis¬ 
posal, to work off that feverish longing for 
bright waters and open country, this is rather 
uncertain. The weather is so variable and the 
streams are often too high for good fishing. Not 
much good can be done while the snow water 
is running. On the flats where there are quiet 
pools or stillwaters, the trout sometimes collect 
in great numbers. As the snow brew seems to 
run outside, the difference in color may be seen 
at once. A few good trout may be picked out 
in such places when nothing can be done in the 
fast water. 
When conditions are really favorable and one 
finds great numbers of anglers on the stream, it 
rarely pays to hurry and endeavor to find good 
water that has not been fished; to go further is 
usually to fare worse and to meet more people 
with rods. One will probably do as w r eH and 
have a better time going slow and taking it easy. 
A rise of natural flies is a great encouragement, 
as one sees for himself that there are trout 
where he is if he can catch them. Of course 
several minnow fishers may come along and put 
