May 9, 1908.] 
worked against it for some time. The flies 
went in almost every direction but the right 
one, and when they did alight properly the trout 
seemed absolutely indifferent to them. At 
length he came to a place where a monstrous 
rock turned the stream and formed a beautiful 
pool fifty feet across. It was very deep, and 
it seemed quite impossible to him that any fish 
lying at the bottom would ever see his flies 
upon the surface. He made two or three half¬ 
hearted casts and then drew in his line. 
“I’ll bet there are a bushel of them down 
in there just starving for a worm,” he mused. 
“Robert can’t be getting anything in this sour 
wind, and I’m going to plant myself on that 
rock and make up for the lead he had on me 
before breakfast.” 
He replaced his flies with a bait hook and 
began operations. Inside of fifteen minutes he 
had taken four trout which might average eight 
inches in length. “Kind o’ small,” he reasoned, 
“and wouldn’t fill up as fast as his, but they 
are trout just the same.” 
He figured it out with mathematical precis¬ 
ion that before the hole was exhausted he would 
have enough to make a very fair showing for 
a beginner at fly-fishing. Scarcely was this com¬ 
forting solution arrived at when Robert stepped 
briskly around the rock. Without saying so 
much as “by your leave” he began to whip the 
pool right over Tom’s line. At the second cast 
he hooked a good trout and played him around 
regardless of the inconvenience to Tom. Then 
he took another and another until he had five, 
and the smallest was plump ten inches. 
Since there seemed to be no more fish in the 
pool which had any appetite for either worms 
or flies, Tom abandoned his rock and the two 
started down stream together. 
“Of course I know men and men’s ways,” 
Robert began solemnly, “and I shall try to over¬ 
look this obvious attempt at deception on your 
part; but when this incident is reported to an¬ 
other, particularly after all the boasting you 
did at the house, I fear it is going to be diffi¬ 
cult for you to ever regain her confidence.” 
“Oh, you dry up,” Tom retorted as he tossed 
the can of bait at Robert, who jumped to es¬ 
cape the squirming shower. “How did you 
happen to get here so soon? Wasnt the fish¬ 
ing any good above the rock?” 
“I guess the fishing was all right. I didn t 
try it. Next time you set Turnover to digging 
worms tell him not to go right in front of a 
window.” 
From that time on they fished faithfully until 
dark. When they reached the hotel at Delhi 
the proprietor brought a large pan for them 
to empty their baskets into, and the pan was 
so full that a few fish slid off. The grocer came 
in to see the catch, and while he was a little 
chagrined he was a good sportsman and com¬ 
plimented the work highly. 
The Little Delaware flows into the West 
Branch of the Delaware River a mile below the 
village of Delhi, in Delaware county, New 
York. It is large enough for pleasant fly-cast¬ 
ing. While not a stream which warrants taking 
a long journey to fish on, if one chances to be 
in the locality he may have some very good 
sport by following down it for a day or two. 
It flows through a valley of excellent dairy 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
farms, and the angler can make few mistakes 
by stopping at any house he comes to for a 
meal. He will be served with a pitcher of de¬ 
lightful Jersey milk, and if he chances to fall 
in with one of the old Scotch grandpas, he 
may hear some very pithy stories. 
Winfield T. Sherwood. 
The Day’s Catch. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
The illustration over the above caption in 
Forest and Stream of April 18 reminds me of 
an incident which occurred a few years since 
at Stamford, N. Y. With my family I was 
spending a few days at this charming summer 
resort. While sitting on the piazza of the hotel 
one evening, enjoying a beautiful sunset and the 
grandeur of the mountain scenery, a gentleman 
about as young as myself—say seventy-five—ap¬ 
proached and accosted me, saying, “Excuse me 
for introducing myself. The hotel proprietor in¬ 
forms me you are a lover of trout fishing.” 
“Yes, I am a lineal descendant of the cele¬ 
brated Izaak Walton,” and the gentleman re¬ 
plied, genially, “I am another. Suppose you and 
I take a day off and try for the trout.” 
He proved a jolly good fellow and we be¬ 
came friends at once, as all genuine lovers of 
fishing are. 
The next morning was clear and sunny, 
neither hot nor cold, just the day for two old 
fellows to enjoy the sport. A wagon drive of 
five miles found us at the brook, a narrow 
shady stream. The water was low, the month 
July. To me the prospect for trout was shaky. 
The stream was well covered with willows, 
making it next to impossible to cast a fly. My 
friend’s first suggestion was to eat a sandwich. 
I agreed, then we went up the creek, looking 
carefully for a spot clear enough of branches 
to see the sky. “You see this is the way to 
tip the rod,” said he. “Turn the wrist so the 
fly will drop in that dark shadow. That’s where 
the big fellows lie when the sun shines bright. 
With wondering eyes I watched the tutor’s 
movements. As I expected, the fly instead of 
touching the water made fast to a high branch 
on the other side of the narrow rivulet. 
“That’s bad,” said he. 
“Yes,” I replied, coughing slightly to smother 
a laugh. “That was a bad cast. Possibly in 
using the wrist you forgot the elbow movement.” 
“I guess I did,” said he. 
We got the fly free and set to work a half 
mile apart. My fly lured no trout. I tried the 
worm, got a strike and caught a chub six inches 
long. For two hours we trudged. I caught six 
chubs and returned them to their natural element. 
My friend caught eight of the same breed and 
put them in his creel. “See my catch,” said 
he. “Eight just like this”—showing a chub six 
inches long. 
“How funny! You catch all trout, I catch 
all chub.” 
“Yes,” he admitted, “ ’tis all in knowing how.” 
Evidently he thought I did not know a trout 
from a chub. To my utter surprise the next 
morning at breakfast my friend, sitting at a 
table near by, lifted a chub on his fork, saying, 
“These are the trout I caught. Why did you 
not bring yours home?’ I wished him joy, say¬ 
ing, “When shall we go again?” 
Robert Rutter. 
739 
Tackle for Catalina Fishing. 
Los Angeles, Cal., May 1 .—Editor Forest and 
Stream: To gaze upon the motley array of 
piscatorial goods which the sporting tourist 
brings to Catalina recalls vividly that remark 
accredited to Diogenes—“Lord, how many 
things are in this world of which I, Diogenes, 
have no need!” 
The opening of the white sea bass season is 
virtually in sight, as the first one, a 35-pounder, 
was taken by H. U. Mudge, of Chicago. The 
coming of the white sea bass opens a carnival 
of big game hunting in the sea lasting six 
months. 
That anglers of experience as diversified as 
the places they hail from should be attracted 
to Catalina from all countries is but natural, 
and from the varied ideas and suggestions that 
have been brought here, the resident experts 
finally have evolved a class of tackle that is a 
marvel of lightness, yet well adapted to the 
work it is called upon to do. Having spent their 
time and money finding out what is best, and 
being sportsmen of the highest type, their only 
motive has been to refine the art of taking the 
big game fish to its uttermost attainment. In 
this they have had a double object; the eleva¬ 
tion of the sport by putting the highest premium 
upon skill, the preservation of the future 
supply by so adding to the difficulties that a 
smaller catch would yield more sport, being the 
other. There is a third also; in no way can 
legislation be had more quickly or certainly 
than by raising the standard of the sea fishes as 
game, and consequently eradicating the idea 
that all marine varieties are essentially food 
fishes, unworthy of the attention of the sports¬ 
man. For years this was the very argument the 
State Fish Commission used when urged to 
protect the game fishes of the sea. A campaign 
of education therefore becomes a necessity, and 
the light tackle movement is among the most 
prominent of its phases. 
So much nonsense has been written about the 
Catalina fishing by men unfamiliar with local 
conditions that all manner of mistaken ideas 
have been promulgated, and the eastern sports¬ 
man is landing here daily with his head filled 
with ideas of tuna, and his sleep enlivened by 
visions of great game fish plunging about like 
roped steers at the end of gossamer-like lines, 
supported by rods of straw-like thickness. It 
is but a work of Christian charity to put a few 
of these ideas right, and in the hope that these 
words may perhaps be of service, and save a few 
dollars to the angler contemplating a visit to 
Catalina Island, rests this article’s excuse for 
being. 
In the first place, the big tuna, is but a 
memory at Catalina, and those who outfit for 
him are going to what in all probability will 
prove needless expense. Better to trust to the 
outfits the boatmen have in case the unexpected 
should happen and the big blue tuna repeat their 
forays of a few years ago. At present, from 
the most reliable data at hand, it would appear 
that the big tuna are in the vicinity of New 
Zealand and Australia, having appeared there 
in great force about the time they left Catalina, 
being to the Antipodeans a new fish. 
Yet the absence of the blue tuna has not been 
missed except by a few of the regulars, for in 
its place has come a somewhat smaller fish 
