570 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Oct. 9, 1909. 
and waited, for were we not started on a hunt¬ 
ing expedition in the Belgrade Lake country, 
where black bass is the foremost consideration 
at all times, and how to catch them the chief 
end of man—the summer .man who deserts the 
city for the pursuit of the bronze-backed 
warrior of the stream and pool, the gamest 
fighter of the fresh waters. 
Now, as anglers may not be said to hunt 
black bass, we hunted what the bass hunt— 
frogs—and it was a frog-hunting trip that 
caused us to be on this particular stone wall at 
this unholy hour in the morning. The friendly 
creaking of a whiffle-tree, the soft thud-thud 
of horses’ feet on the wet sand, foretold the 
team, and a comfortable surrey drawn by two 
hardy mountain horses loomed up in the un¬ 
certain light, halted at our stone barrier, took 
ourselves with rifles, rods and a goodly sized 
lunch hamper on board, when away we went, 
unrolling the hill road behind us in a way that 
indicated a speedy if not a safe journey. 
With the first gray light of oncoming day, 
songbirds began their calls to the morning; 
great streaks of red and yellow light turning 
rapidly to fire shot up from behind distant 
peaks; cattle began lowing in the meadows, 
sheep bells tinkled on the hillside. The sharp 
bark of a collie and the raucous call of the 
chanticleer gave us a delightful sense of quiet, 
as the sounds of the rural morning are as 
soothing as the crooning of the watcher at the 
cradleside. A noisy quiet, a peaceful rustle, 
the awakening of the countryside, the spring¬ 
ing into our lives of the dwellers of the hill 
farms, the kings of these mountains and their 
alert and joyous subjects. 
When the sun shot up from the great “un¬ 
known beyond,” the scene was one worth a 
journey of weeks’ duration to witness. Grand 
■old forest-clad hills, with picturesque valleys 
■cutting them at almost every angle; here and 
there on every side, cosy and prosperous-look¬ 
ing farms with substantial buildings and well- 
groomed fields began to show through the 
fleecy, sunlit mist overhanging the mountain 
tops, softening the light on hill and valley, and 
intensifying the many shades of vivid green 
and varying chromes of forest and field. It 
was haying time, and long before we reached 
our destination the whir of the mowing ma¬ 
chines, borne on a gentle breeze laden with 
the delicious perfume of new-mown hay, came 
up to us from below, and we rode for several 
miles in silent enjoyment, full of the joy of 
Irving in the open where life is always worth 
the living. 
“If you are a-lookin’ fer Tracy, he’s gone 
out baitin’, and he left me to turn you off the 
rud up here,” came a voice like a call from 
spiritland, as a boy on a bicycle shouted out of 
the mist and ranged up alongside our vehicle 
with a skill and speed that indicated mountain 
training and mountain climbing wind. We were 
“lookin’ fer Tracy” and turned off through a 
pasture indicated by our new-found guide, when 
we soon came to the outer edge of the great 
swamp where the bait-catchers work from dawn 
to dark to supply the anglers with small frogs 
to catch the black bass of the Belgrade 
Lakes. 
We found a dark, forbidding-looking stream 
flowing sluggishly through many miles of 
swamp, and then as we halted on the border of 
a great marsh, the cries of millions of frogs 
came up to us from forests of rank vegetation 
in a volume beyond anything we had ever en¬ 
countered before. The bellowing and croaking 
of the big fellows, with the shrill piping of the 
peepers, whose early cry is so often our de¬ 
lighted assurance of the return of spring, 
furnished a concert never to be forgotten. 
Twisting and turning to all points of the com¬ 
pass, like a gigantic snake, this spring-fed 
stream flows through a broad valley in a bed 
of black mud and ooze, the overflow forming 
hundreds of acres of swamp, an ideal great 
natural breeding place for frogs. Here they 
thrive in spite of their enemies—and they have 
many—and continue to grow more abundant, 
notwithstanding the heavy drain made each year 
by the bait-catchers. It is a weird place; no 
tiny sunlight waves, no sparkle, not even a 
ripple stirred the surface of this mud-banked 
and bottomed creek, as it flowed silently 
through broad acres of rush and swale-covered 
bog. From our elevation, patches of water 
lilies, bunches of flags and occasional pools 
could be seen; now a giant blue heron slowly 
winged his way along the stream, a group of 
mudhens splashed and dove in a stagnant pool, 
an occasional wild duck skimmed along the 
surface of the water following the stream, and 
the frogs, always the frogs, bellowing, croaking, 
chirping and singing their weird calls to the 
morning sun in a dismal chorus like a chant of 
lost souls from the dark waters of the Styx. 
We came upon the camp of the bait-catchers 
situated on a fir tree shaded rise of ground, 
just on the edge of the marsh. A group of 
wagons with wire netting sides and ends to 
convey the catch back to town, some horse 
blankets and lunch pails, a variety of nets and 
old clothing, from which our guide selected a 
shirt of doubtful color and a pair of swimming 
trunks and disappeared behind a leafy screen 
to prepare for his labors. 
“Come on,” said the boy, as he made a dash 
for the mud flats, followed by Ingen and our 
Japanese boy Sauda. Both being lightweights, 
they easily got over and through the swamp, 
while being of portly mien and full habit—some¬ 
what two hundred pounds of portly mien 
I decided, like a cautious general, to view the 
battle from afar. Lighting my pipe, after seek¬ 
ing the shade of a magnificent old oak tree, 
stretched on a blanket, I watched the hunt. 
As the object of our visit was to get some 
frog saddles as a change from our regular camp 
diet, and to observe the methods of the bait- 
catchers, not to interfere with them, we were 
made free to their camp and the swamp with 
all they contained. The boys skimmed out 
over the treacherous bog to the water’s edge; 
then the sharp ping of a .22, followed by many 
more reports, told the tale of battle. The 
slaughter was on. The boy guide dived into 
the black water, half crawling and half swim¬ 
ming; he reached the other side when, with a 
shout, he held up a couple of great yellow- 
throttled frogs, shot through the head. The 
boy dived and the shooter shot for two hours, 
when the trio returned to the wagons, tired and 
mud-spattered almost beyond recognition, liter¬ 
ally loaded down with frogs; and such frogs! 
I am sure they would average a half pound in 
weight. Did you ever weigh a frog? Well, 
select a large one and try it, and you will 
promptly decide that your scale is out of order. 
Only the largest ones were shot, and as the 
bait-catchers hunt only the small ones, there 
were many big fellows of enormous size. The 
natives say one was caught there a few years 
since that actually weighed five pounds. From 
what we saw, one would be inclined to credit 
this statement as probable. 
The bait-catchers swarm through the swamp, 
driving the small frogs into the water and then 
dip them up with long-handled nets, count them 
into the boxes in which they are carried to the 
village and the camps for sale. The catchers 
are paid fifty cents a hundred; the bait-dealer 
at the lakes pays the hunter one dollar a hun¬ 
dred, and sells them to the angler at a dollar 
and ’fifty cents a hundred. The supply never 
exceeds the demand. In a dry season, when 
garden hackle, in th>e shape of night walkers, 
cannot be had, the frogs are spoken for in ad 
vance, and late comers often have to go away 
empty-handed. This, after the hot weather sets 
in, and fly-casting—and in fact all surface cast¬ 
ing is a waste of time—is most important, a; 
the supply of bait fixes the degree of spor 
after July 1. 
The salmon, trout and togue anglers emplo; 
men to catch smelt with which they troll it 
deep water. Others visit creeks with minnov 
nets for small chub, pouts and yellow perch fo 
bait. After a heavy downfall of rain, the flasf 
of dark-lanterns along the roadside, in the field 
and even in the kitchen gardens, proclaims th 
fact that the night-walker hunters are abroa- 
in the night. These large earthworms fin 
ready sale to anglers. When the harvest is o 
grasshoppers are caught by the farmers boy 
and brought in for bait. The dobson is littl 
used in Belgrade waters, and I met no on 
there who had ever used shrimp. The bas 
fishermen in the near-coast ponds aroun 
Boston and the Cape consider shrimp the be: 
bass bait obtainable. It is strange that tl 
regular salt-water shrimp should be used as 
bait for fresh-water fish, but as an old angl< 
said, “they get the fish,” and this is true.' 
To the out-and-outer who scorns the use 1 
anything but his flies, the subject of bait in ar 
but liquid form is objectionable. Why? Wh< I 
the angler goes forth to pursue his favori 
pastime, if he is a sportsman, he will only u 
legitimate methods. If he is a true sportsma 
he will be as adept in the use of every knovj| 
lure as he is in any particular one; if a cran 
he will in all probability abuse the users of ; 
methods but his own favorite one—claim thj 
his is the only true sportsman’s way. The 
when it fails, use what he has preached again 
and in all cases, stretch the truth by denying 
Why? 
Along the stream known as the outlet 
Great Lake, in the center of Belgrade villa*, 
there are many landings. On some of these tP 
bait merchants keep shop and sell from par 7 
submerged cages all known kinds of live bafj 
here the angler comes for his daily suppj. 
This stream, as are all other streams flowi? 
into this chain of lakes, has been closed by D 
for years. Here the great bass can be set 
waiting for sight-seers who throw frogs al 
minnows to them. They dash at anything c.t 
upon the surface of the water, knowing, tr 
parently, that there is no concealed hook. Tp 
almost hourly feeding of these splendid fish p 
