FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Aug. 21, 1909. 
298 
now made commercially and can be bought all 
ready to use. They are called casting floats. 
About 1887 I happened to be in Sheffield, 
Mass., in April, when the weather had become 
nice and warm. It was on a Saturday night. 
I was talking fishing with a friend, a druggist, 
and he mentioned that the spearing was very 
good. I asked him to go with me that night, 
but he could not leave his store, and suggested 
that I go with Jack, a famous fisherman. He 
could not get away, but after some talk he 
promised to go with me to Sage s Ravine next 
day after trout. Then the druggist said he 
would let the boy who worked for him go with 
me if I would buy two gallons of kerosene for 
the torch. He called the boy, who reminded me 
by his looks and actions of a fox terrier—all 
eagerness to go, full of action, nervous, im¬ 
patient and gritty. When supper had been fin¬ 
ished he had the duffle ready. He had made 
half a dozen balls of burlap, tied with wire, the 
end of the wire forming a loop. He had poured 
the kerosene into a pail made for the purpose. 
It was small in diameter, but about eighteen 
inches high. The burlap balls were soaking in 
the kerosene. He had a fish spear with a handle 
twelve feet long and a piece of wood with a 
long iron hook attached. When the river was 
reached he set up his hook in the bow, put a 
ball on it and touched a match to it and we 
were off. He poled the boat with the spear, 
and crouching low in the bow with his slouch 
hat pulled over his eyes to shade them from the 
flickering light, he made quite a picture. We 
were on an overflowed meadow and there seem¬ 
ed to be plenty of fish. He would pole the 
boat, always keeping a sharp lookout, and would 
suddenly reverse the spear and make a quick 
dart with it and impale one. After he had 
caught a number I tried it, much against his 
will, as he said I could not hit one anyhow. 
I knew that one must aim under the fish be¬ 
cause they appeared nearer the surface than 
they are on account of the refraction. I only 
missed one out of six trials, but the boy was 
constantly asking for the spear and darting with 
it away out into the dark water, generally get¬ 
ting his fish; so I let him do the spearing, as I 
conceive one ought to when he is in the way 
of a more capable person. 
The funniest thing and one that made me 
catch my breath was when the ball burned it¬ 
self out and the boy needed more light. He 
had a wire hook in the pail and he would fish 
around until he caught a fresh ball on it; then 
he would take that in his hand and catch the 
burning ball, now a red hot mass, on the hook, 
remove it from its support, put on the new one 
and light it from the hot one and then drop the 
red hot one in the pail of kerosene which at 
once caught fire and started to blaze. He turn¬ 
ed, and pulling his overcoat tight around him, 
sat down on it and smothered it. Once he 
missed the overcoat and sat down without its 
protection and the fire streamed up from between 
his legs and I looked for a tragedy, but he made 
a few quick motions and smothered it. 
About that time I tried to learn strip-casting, 
using an eleven-foot heavy lancewood black bass 
fly-rod while fishing the neck in Culver’s Lake 
in New Jersey during a slight rain. I was cast¬ 
ing a No. 3 white fluted spoon with single hook, 
baiting with a perch belly. Although the pick¬ 
erel are few there, they are game and fight hard. 
I had no anchor and the light breeze blew the 
boat where I did not want it to go. I noticed 
that the pickerel always bit with the bait lying 
crosswise of their mouths, and as they always 
grabbed the perch belly I could see the hook 
lying outside of the fish’s mouth and would not 
dare to strike until it disappeared inside the 
jaws. I lost two or three and then I sat down 
in the boat and lashed a snelled hook on below 
the other one, so the hook was at the tail end 
of the perch belly. It worked well and I was 
happy when I showed my string to the rest of 
the campers. 
On the day before Memorial Day, in 1904, I 
went with my cousin, Fred Peabody, to Lake 
Wonscopomowoc, in Connecticut. My desire 
was to try for some lake trout, a large number 
of which had been caught there. Fred wanted 
to fish, but did not seem impressed with the 
lake trout idea. William Riley went with us 
just to be amused. I do not think Riley cared 
whether we went for fish or whales or codfish 
balls, as long as there promised to be some fun 
in it. We fished awhile, but caught no trout. 
Then we cast with wood minnows and found 
the lake was alive with Oswego bass. As near 
as I could guess, somebody had planted about 
700,000 Oswego bass fry in that lake. They had 
all grown up together, were all about eleven 
inches long and all hungry. This lake is really 
an immense spring, marly circular in shape, and 
the water is so clear that the bottom is visible 
fifteen feet below the boat. Its reputation for 
years had been that there were a few big small- 
mouth bass and pickerel in it, but they were 
very hard to catch. The Oswegos were plainly 
in sight where the bottom was visible. They 
had eaten every small fish in the lake and were 
ready for more. One could go all over the lake 
and not get one minnow. We cast and caught 
Oswegos until we were tired of the fun. I got 
twenty-nine Oswegos and three smal'-mouth bass 
in an hour and a quarter. The small-mouths 
were larger than the Oswegos. We took the 
hooks from their mouths and dropped them back 
into the lake to grow. 
As we were working our way around the lake 
a boat came near us. It had for its only occu¬ 
pant a bright-faced countryman and we passed 
a few remarks. His looks and actions aroused 
my curiosity and I watched him while we were 
talking to him. He rowed out into the lake, 
which shoals rapidly at this point, all the while 
with his eyes peering down into the water be¬ 
neath his boat. When the aspect suited him he 
arose and lowered the stone for an anchor to 
the full length of his rope and then rowed to¬ 
ward shore until it grounded. Then he uncoiled 
a line he had and fastened the hook through the 
back of a lively brook dace he took out of a 
bait pail. His was rather crude tackle, about 
fifty feet of medium size line, a hook, a small 
sinker sufficient to keep the dace down and 
about nineteen feet above it a large cork. He 
coiled the outfit around his hand after making 
the end fast, stood up in the boat and threw it 
as far as he could toward the deep water. Then 
he sat down and was preparing to put out an¬ 
other similar line when I warned him that his 
cork had disappeared. After a proper interval 
he hooked, played and landed a pickerel of a 
trifle over three and a half pounds. We talked 
and he fished and he had two more inside of 
fifteen minutes. He said he preferred deeper 
water, but was prevented from going out fur¬ 
ther by the shortness of his anchor rope. He 
said he lived a couple of miles or so away where 
there were a couple of small ponds and he could 
usually get all the bait he needed. He refused 
to sell us any as he only brought what he need¬ 
ed himself. When we passed him an hour or 1 
so later in a new location he showed us two 
more all above three and a half pounds each. 
As we could not buy bait and could not 
catch any pickerel with spoons or wood min¬ 
nows, we went to another pond a few miles 
away. 
This pond was shallow and I stood in the 
1 OW of the boat and cast with a green wood min¬ 
now while Fred in the stern was casting with a 
smaller and much prettier wood minnow with 
green back, red sides and white belly. The 
pickerel bit nearly as fast as the bass had and 
I was busy landing them when I heard the 
conversation between Fred and Riley. Said Fred: 
“How is it that they take his minnow and 
won't take mine? Most every time he casts he 
hooks one, and all they will do is to chase mine, 
and when they see us they dive under the boat. 
Now, you watch. Did you see that one? He 
wasn’t three inches behind it and went under 
the boat. Now look again. Did you see him 
that time? 
“I guess they are Irish,’.’ said Riley, “and 
don’t like the red on its sides.” 
After I had a water pail full and Fred had 
two he sat down, took out his jack-knife and 
scraped the red off, leaving the sides white. 
Then they bit better, but not as well as at the 
one with light green back and aluminum belly. 
We had worked up to a rocky shore when 
zip! splash! and a small-mouth had my bait. 
After a lot of jumping I landed a four-pound 
bass. 
T had received another lesson in the pickerel 
and its vagaries. 
Eagle Lake was the scene of my next ex¬ 
perience—one of the pleasantest in a long and 
busy life. When a friend asks where Eagle 
Lake is I reply, “It is next door to Heaven.’’ 
Though as a matter of fact no intelligent mar 
would look for Heaven near Ticonderoga, but 
one can never tell. Even jack roses have thorns 
While on a business trip I took the stage fron 
Schroon Lake to Ti. It was in October, whei 
the woods had donned their gay colors, and as 
the sun rose the scene became more and mon 
enchanting. When the lake came into view nev 
beauties impressed themselves on my vision, am 
when we stopped at the hotel to get the mai, 
I inquired if I was welcome and told the drive 
I would stay until the morrow. I stayed thre 
days and would still be there if I could afford i’ 
George Houghtaling, the proprietor of Eagl 1 
Lake House, is a Civil War veteran who ha 
lived at Schroon Lake, Paradox Lake and Eagl 
Lake since his return from the war. A kef’ 
lover of nature and a sportsman in all th? 
word implies, he is the best of company. Whe 
I dropped in on lr'm the judge, as he is affectior 
ately called by his intimates, had just receive 
notice that some friends were going to call 0 
Sunday and they must have a fish dinner, 
was his duty to provide it and I joyfully pr< 
posed to go with him. We started, the judg 
at the oars and I seated in the stern, holding 
trolling line decorated with a muscallunge spoo 
of the largest size. The fish in this lake ai 
