May 30, 1908.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
859 
A Seth Green Rig. 
Along in March, if you could get a peep into 
anyone of some hundreds of houses around 
Lake Keuka where live the “elect,” you would 
see a man lovingly at work in the midst of 
gangs, snells, leaders, swivels, silk lines, whiffle- 
trees, etc. 
This man by that token is a fisherman for 
trout, not, to be sure, a whipper of rivulets with 
a gossamer thread attached to an attenuated 
splinter, but a taker of lake trout in deep free 
water with that most complicated and sturdy 
piece of tackle known as a Seth Green rig. And 
let him not be despised because lie knows not 
the skillful touch and fine art of the fly-fisher¬ 
man, for he is a sportsman to the finest nerve, 
with a skill all his own, his own peculiar knowl¬ 
edge, his fishy instinct, and oh, what a stayer 
he is! He never gives up; he goes to stay till 
they bite. 
Like all good fishermen he gets as much 
pleasure out of working over his tackle as he 
does out of handling a fish. This year he will 
rig up a new outfit. Long days and nights of 
soaking and many tugs of heavy fish and con¬ 
stant friction over boat edge has done their 
work with the old one, and regretfully it is laid 
aside. 
His rig will be like that of none of his neigh¬ 
bors, but his will be right. He takes the old 
sinker, seven ounces of lead, and binds to it 
fourteen feet of line, this to run on the bottom. 
The other end of this fourteen-foot line is tied 
to a whiffletree, or three-way swivel, out from 
which he runs a twelve-foot leader, nine of silk 
and three of gut with a new gang of about No. 
7 hooks looped; then he puts in another four¬ 
teen-foot section, another swivel, another leader, 
and so on, six leaders in all, to fish from bottom 
to surface in forty feet of water. 
When all is finished to his liking he lays it 
away in its box, the line and leaders falling in 
coils upon themselves, and the gangs tucked 
away in little compartments partitioned off at 
one end, the rig is ready. A formidable look¬ 
ing rig it is. too. I well remember the feelings 
of alarm with which I first contemplated that 
snarl of leader, line and swivel in seemingly in¬ 
extricable confusion in the bottom of the box. 
1 ut it is generally harmless, barring accidents. 
And now if you will come with me in May 
we will fish a night on Keuka Lake. 
The night before the sawbelly net had been 
set, a long fine-meshed gill net, and in the morn 
ing taken up starred all over with sawbellies, 
beautiful silver fish of the herring family with 
a toothed row of sharp scales along the belly, 
giving them their common name. They are the 
natural food of the lake trout. By trolley wo 
go to Branchport at the head of the western 
branch of the lake where our boats lie during 
the fishing season, May and June, and arc set 
down in the midst of woods all sweet with 
spring time smells and green and soft with 
fuzzy newly-growing things. 
Down a long slanting path we go and emerge 
upon the shore just as the sun drops behind the 
hill at our right. Here at the northern end of 
the lake we pause and look far away to 
the southward between sloping shores, solidly 
wooded on the left and covered with farms 
and vineyards on the right. In front the lake 
stretches away, visible for eight or nine miles 
and three quarters of a mile wide. The surface 
is crisping under a gentle breeze, the air is clear 
and sweet; everything lies in evening quiet. 
But while we are loading our boats with 
tackle, lunch, bait, net, lantern, torch, etc., all 
the paraphernalia of trout fishing, boats began 
to appear from every quarter, pulling away 
quickly into deep water and beginning to fish. 
There is no hurry, for it is early, but we catch 
the spirit and call out impatiently to each other 
All the lake is fishing ground, but each man 
has his preference. We will fish to-night off 
Picnic Point and pull down the lake a mile or 
so to begin. Off the point, a little gravel beach, 
the water deepens very rapidly, and here the 
boat is allowed to drift, while out comes the 
tackle box. Each gang is baited with a fresh 
sawbelly, hooked with a slight crook to make 
him twist and dart sidewise in the water. The 
sinker goes first and the line runs out rapidly 
until the first whiffletree is reached; catch the 
leader in one hand and the main line in the 
other and let them run until you come to the 
gang, cast that away so that it may fall free, 
catch your oars and pull ahead to straighten, 
let the line run till you reach the next gang, and 
so on till they are all out, and line enough be¬ 
sides so that you can chug the bottom. 
Now the fishing is on and we slip two fingers 
into the loop in the line provided for that pur¬ 
pose, and row with short easy strokes, very 
slowly, the motion of the oar imparting to the 
line just the right twitch to keep the sawbelly 
dancing. Trout fishing may be slow; you are 
fishing for big fish, and one of them must com¬ 
pensate for a long wait if need be. 
Darkness comes on as we move slowly to 
and fro, boat after boat appears, torches are 
lighted and put in place until fifty or more boats 
are passing back and forth, sometimes in long 
procession-like lines, and again in a mere con¬ 
fusion of bright spots, every torch throwing a 
long wavering path of light upon the water m 
reflection from itself. The great golden moon 
rolls slowly up from behind the trees and starts 
upon its long journey through the heavens. 
You will watch its whole course out to-night 
if you are a good fisherman. 
Your neighbor, as lie passes you, remarks, 
“Chuck just took one in down at the other 
end.” “Chuck” is two miles away, yet in five 
minutes after he lands a fish every man in the 
fleet knows it. There is no fuss about it, but 
the word passes quietly and quickly. A dull 
rap rap sounds way off at your left. It is a 
foolkiller tapping on a big trout’s head. An¬ 
other neighbor remarks that they are “takin 
holt a little.” “Yes,” says another old hand, 
“but talcin’ holt and hogging on is two different 
things,” and so they are. 
After your patience has long been worn out 
one “takes holt” of yours, and you immediately 
feel that you are a boy again. He is on fast 
enough, hooked by his own attack, and the fun 
begins, for here is the beauty of the Seth 
Green rig.” Your trout is perhaps on the 
fourth leader down, so you must in addition 
to handling the fish take in and stow carefully 
three leaders, and in case he desires to go back 
suddenly to the bottom you must cast them 
overboard again in proper order if you won id 
save your trout and spare yourself an hour's 
work on a snarl. But if you keep your head 
and work him slowly you need not lose him. 
So, at last, you net him and lug him into the 
boat, baste him on the head with the foolkiller, 
separate him from that murderous gang, and 
look him over. If ha goes four pounds we will 
call him a good one, six to eight a big one. One 
weighing over nineteen was taken on a line a 
few years ago. 
Lake trout fishing seems to cast a spell over 
a man when once he is fairly embarked upon 
it. Why it is I do not know, but he will leave 
all other fishing, all other sports, to return to 
this, and in no other sport have I seen such 
stubborn perseverance in the face of long runs 
of ill luck. Day after day, night after night, 
you will see the same boat patiently working 
the grounds when the trout arc taking a week 
off and never a single fish for reward. He can¬ 
not help it; perhaps he will tell you, “I would 
rather fish for trout than catch any other fish." 
The trout fisher is game to the backbone. 
One old faithful has many bites on his big 
lead sinker “when they won t touch a spoon. 
He now has it rigged with hooks, but we do 
not yet hear any reports of captures on it. 
This old gentleman’s manner of handling a 
trout may be inferred from his remarks during 
the operation: “There, sir, I’ve got one ! Ahaaa 
sir! Come on now, sir! Come on, come in 
here; I want you, sir! Ah, you will, will you? 
No sir! He’s a big one boys; he’s a dandy! 
Come in here, sir; I’ve got something for you. 
sir. I’ll cure your headache for you! Ah, here 
he comes. He’s a dandy. Oooooh, there he 
goes, there he goes, boys! Yes, sir, he got off. 
Ha, ha, ha, he got off. Yes, sir, that s right. 
He was a good one, too. Can t git eni all. 
Another old fisherman expressed his feelings 
on losing a good one as follows: “Say, boys, 
if that feeling lasted an hour it would kill a 
man.” 
Good friends you will make among these 
fishermen on Lake Keuka. I hey will rig your 
lines, give you bait, show you grounds, guy jou 
when you lose a fish with well worn jokes, and 
rich or poor, will make you one of them. 
Carl Churchill. 
Bass Records. 
Burlington, N. J-, May 18 .—Editor Forest 
and Stream: In your issue of May 16 B. R. 
asks for information regarding large bass m 
lakes. While I cannot speak for New York. 
New Hampshire and Pennsylvania, I can for 
New Jersey. The catches in Silver Lakes near 
Burlington the last three seasons run as follows: 
714 , 6, 5 l A, 5- 5 and smaller. 
John W. Davis. 
Salmon for Long Island. 
Thirty thousand small salmon were recently 
put in the Peconic River, on Long Island, by 
Superintendent Walters, of the Cold Spring Har 
bor State Hatchery. This is an experimental 
planting, and the river and Peconic Bay will 
be watched with interest during the next two 
years to ascertain, if possible, whether many of 
the fish remain in or return to those waters. 
Whale Creek Whalers. 
The Whale Creek Whaling Club is the rather 
ponderous name of a fishing club in New Jersey, 
the members of which will probably never catch 
or lay claim to any fish larger than striped bass 
and weakfish. 
