March 21, 1908.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
461 
Camp Rattler. 
Lycoming County, Pa., Feb. 13. — Editor For¬ 
est and Stream: I have read, with much inter¬ 
est, the article by Mr. Gordon, of Sullivan coun¬ 
ty, N. Y., which appeared in Forest and Stream 
of February 1. As I was born and lived in that 
“blessed old county” until I was twenty-four 
years of age, his letter was doubly interesting 
to me. 
He asks if Young Woman’s Creek (Pa.) is 
any good. Last year my brother Chauncy, Mr. 
S. F. Smith, G. Gearhart and myself started for 
trout up that stream. We left the train at North 
Bend. A man with a team was there to meet us 
and we drove seven miles up the creek over the 
roughest road I ever traveled. At last we reached 
Camp Rattler tired and sore. However, after a 
little lunch we put our rods together and plunged 
into the stream. We fished with all our might 
that afternoon and when the last man straggled 
into camp at about 7:30 we compared notes. I 
had six that came within the prescribed limit of 
the law, and none of the others had fared any 
better. 
Time and space are too short to tell about 
“Camp Rattler.” Several dead rattlers were lying 
around outside the shanty, for another fishing 
party had left the evening before. We started a 
fire in the old cook-stove and soon had a fine 
trout supper, after which we went outside, built 
a big camp-fire, and after providing ourselves 
with good “big sticks” we opened a box of 
cigars and sat down to enjoy a smoke and watch 
and listen for rattlers. If they were in the 
neighborhood they kept very quiet. 
Late in the night we went up into the second 
story of the shanty to try to get a little rest and 
sleep. We spread ourselves out over the floor 
and things were beginning to quiet down a little 
when suddenly a peculiar little sound was heard 
and Chauncy, who was lying flat on his back, 
let out a whoop and gave one spring. He seemed 
to touch neither hand nor foot but landed square 
on his feet in the center of the room. In an in¬ 
stant the rest of us were up, shillalahs in hand, 
and, although we hunted high and low, we could 
find nothing but a poor little lone cricket upon 
one of the rafters. We finally settled down 
again and when nearly asleep one of the party 
began in a low tone of voice, as if talking to 
himself, to relate the following incident: 
“Our church is usually crowded on Sundays, 
but one evening last fall there was an extra 
large congregation present and the pastor was 
about to open the service when he noticed a 
brother preacher who was sitting near the door. 
The pastor immediately went back to him and 
asked him to preach for us that evening. He at 
first declined, saying that he had been detained 
in town over the Sabbath and had j ust slipped 
in hoping to hear a good sermon by some one 
other than himself. But he finally consented to 
preach and went up into the pulpit. 
“This brother was a German and talked in 
quite broken English. He took as his theme the 
prodigal son. After reading his text he plunged 
into the subject and in a few minutes you could 
see that boy getting together all his beloilgings— 
could see him packing his things in his grip, his 
mother standing near him with tears rolling 
down her cheeks, the old man seated in his chair 
with his elbows resting on his knees, with his 
head in his hands. You could see that boy at 
last bidding good-bye to the folks and the old 
home and with a light step and a cheerful heart 
starting down the lane toward the far off coun¬ 
try. He drew a vivid word picture of the young 
fellow having a bully good time as long as his 
money lasted, then took him out of the city and 
dowm into the swine country and finally got him 
started back toward home. ‘And now, friends,’ 
he exclaimed, ‘shoost look at him. He is coming 
home, but shoost look at him. There he comes 
over the hill. No hat, mit long straggly hair, no 
coat, no vest, only von gallus, no shoes on his 
feet, knees and elbows all hanging out. Here he 
comes up to der gate. Shoost look at him! No 
vonder der leetle dog runs out and barks and 
barks and barks at him—der struwweliclie bug¬ 
ger!’ ” 
All of us broke out into a hearty laugh and as 
the first rays of the morning light were just be¬ 
ginning to peep through the crevices of the old 
shanty, we all got up and began preparations for 
breakfast. We fished Young Woman’s Creek 
again that day until four o’clock in the after¬ 
noon, when our man with his team came for us. 
I think we had about a dozen trout, all told, 
but the pleasure we got out of the trip was 
worth more than four baskets full. 
J. M. Black. 
Trout Destroyed by Ice. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
I .think I am safe in stating that fewer fish 
have been killed this winter by the freezing 
of streams in northern Massachusetts than was 
the case a year ago, when some of the brooks 
froze solid. . Of course the fish descended to 
deep pools, and in those confined quarters the 
smaller trout and fingerlings became the prey of 
larger fish. As far as I have been able to ascer¬ 
tain, our brooks have been spared this season. 
I cannot refrain from criticising the practice 
of putting out stall-fed fingerlings in the late 
autumn, when there is little or no insect life 
in the water to furnish nutriment for the young 
fish which have hitherto been accustomed to re¬ 
ceive prepared food from the hands of the 
breeder. 
He would be considered a poor poultry man, 
who, having a number of half-fledged chickens, 
which had been bountifully fed and cared for, 
should turn them adrift in an arid, sandy waste. 
• It seems to me that if the troutlings can be 
kept in retaining ponds or tanks where they can 
be properly cared for until spring, it would be 
far better to release them at that time. 
If efforts are to be made to restock our brooks 
with trout, the streams should be liberally sup¬ 
plied with the spawn of fresh-water smelts, which 
the fish commissioners of different States are 
ready and willing to give out for the asking. 
These smelt eggs may be planted among weeds 
and drift stuff, and the young smelts, which 
hatch early in the season, will furnish an abun¬ 
dant and most acceptable food for the young 
trntl) . E. A. Samuels. 
Incubating. 
The flowers sleep beneath the snow 
Till springtime warmth they catch, 
And under winter’s icy truth 
The first fish stories hatch. 
—The Sun. 
The New Tuna Classification. 
Los Angeles, Cal., March 1 .—Editor Forest 
and Stream: There is a new bee buzzing in the 
bonnets of the tuna fishermen since Prof. David 
Starr Jordan finished his latest seance with the 
skeletons of Catalina’s greatest game fishes. 
Dr. Jordan was asked to classify the yellow- 
fin tuna on its appearance on these coasts several 
seasons ago, and at that time announced that the 
fish was the Hirenaga, or Japanese albacore. 
Inasmuch as it presented tuna characteristics 
from the viewpoint of the sportsman, and was 
quite as difficult to- take on light tackle as its 
larger relative, the blue or big tuna, the Cata¬ 
lina angling clubs have recognized the yellow- 
finned variety as such, and have awarded their 
trophies upon it as a true tuna. 
Now comes the eminent ichthyologist with a 
reversal of his former classification so sweep¬ 
ing as to include the plebeian albacore in the 
lordly family of tuna. The yellow-fin he now 
finds is a true tuna, and the common albacore, 
alias “hog,” “pig,” and other designations be¬ 
stowed by the experts who find him an intoler¬ 
able nuisance when after nobler game, now 
must be known officially as “long-finned tuna. 
Whether he will or not, remains to be seen. 
Dr. Jordan’s standing in the fish world is so 
exalted that none would dare to question any 
decision he has fathered, but the error admitted 
on the yellow-fin tuna suggests a possibility of 
piscatorial history repeating itself, which would 
be a consummation devoutly to be hoped for, 
inasmuch as the present classification has made 
a mess of the Catalina competitions by cheap¬ 
ening the accomplishment of every man who 
ever caught a bona fide tuna. One and all they 
are in arms against it, and the Catalina clubs 
do not propose to offer any tuna trophies on 
the new classification, probably continuing to 
know the fish as the albacore. This action is 
certain to be concurred in by the Southern 
California Rod and Reel Club. 
It is so exceedingly easy to catch a long- 
finned tuna off Catalina at almost any season 
that the veriest novice can safely count on land¬ 
ing a 20-pounder in the course of a day if he 
has to lose a dozen in the trying. One boat has 
often been known to take thirty odd of the 
long fins in a morning’s fishing, and at the al¬ 
bacore tournament a few seasons ago several 
tons of them were taken in one day—a shame¬ 
ful exhibition of heavy-tackle slaughter that 
stands to the discredit of every man who took 
part in it, and is still writ large in bold black 
letters. 
That the handful of men who have conquered 
the mighty blue tuna of from 100 to 251 pounds 
weight are disgusted with the prospect of shar¬ 
ing their glory with every marine “pig-sticker” 
goes without saying. Colonel Clinton P. More- 
hous, who holds the world’s record, unbeaten 
even by himself after persistent effort each year, 
is one who feels particularly pleased. 
Consensus of opinion is that the new classi¬ 
fication will be treated in a wholly scientific 
manner and will be ignored by all except the 
Catalina newspaper correspondents, who do not 
know an albacore from a bonita anyway. A few 
days ago they printed an account of the capture 
of a “record” long-fin tuna (albacore) of sixty- 
odd pounds weight. The accompanying photo¬ 
graph was not so badly blurred that the char- 
