142 
FOREST A N D S T REAM 
March, 1918 
There was more buck to that buckboard 
than to any cayuse that wore hair 
Look closely and you will see I am net¬ 
ting a fish, not catching a butterfly 
Suddenly out of an apparently empty 
pool came a whale of a beauty 
THE BRONZE BEAUTY OF PLASTER POOL 
“NEWT” NEWKIRK RELATES HIS REMINISCENCES OF A MONSTER SPECKLED TROUT 
THAT PROVED THE TRUTH OF THE SMALL BOY’S MAXIM “FISH WON’T EAT FEATHERS” 
T HE sun had politely bowed himself 
out of sight and the June twilight 
was deepening when the buckboard 
bucked its way into a clearing and stopped 
before a comfortable little farmhouse. 
“Well, fellers, here we be at the end of 
the road,” says Zeke Wilkins, who had 
driven us six miles in from the station. 
Nick Scott, my pal on more than one fish¬ 
ing trip, and I tumbled out, glad to stretch 
our legs, and got busy unloading our camp 
equipment. “How do you feel, old scout?” 
says I to Nick. ‘ Veil,” says Nick, “I feel 
as if about six inches of my backbone is 
stickin’ up thru my hat, is it ?—that buck- 
board is sure some rough-rider, what 1 
How do you feel, Newt?” “I don’t feel 
a-tall,” says I; “I’m numb and paralyzed 1 ” 
Zeke Wilkins’ family consisted of one 
wife and one son. She was a motherly 
soul and gave us a genuine 24-karat wel¬ 
come while her husband stabled the horses. 
Josiah, the son—a kid about nine years old 
—wasn’t much to look at and it was all I 
could do to keep from bustin’ out laffin’ 
when I clapped my eyes on him. Josiah 
had brick-red hair, a cute little snub of a 
nose and the freckles on his face were so 
thick they crowded each other. When he 
grinned (and he was always grinnin’) 
there was an upper front tooth absent from 
roll-call and this gave him a most ludi¬ 
crous appearance. When Nature made 
Josiah’s face she must have hurried to 
finish the job—as it was she nearly ruined 
him. But in spite of his homeliness there 
was something likable about the young¬ 
ster’s sunny smile and twinkling eyes. Nick 
and I warmed up to him at once. 
After supper we loosened our belts, filled 
our pipes and began to pump Zeke on the 
prospects of what had brought us so far 
from the big burg—fishing. He explained 
that Plaster River flowed southward along 
his farm and emptied into Plaster Lake 
two miles below; also that there were 
plenty of camping places along the stream 
where we could pitch our tent. “As fur as 
fish is concerned,” he concluded, “I guess 
Josiah knows more about thet’n I do.” 
Then we pumped the kid and gathered 
from his testimony that there were trout in 
the river up to a pound and better. Josiah 
told us of an “ole golwholloper” he had 
hooked ar.d lost the day before while his 
By NEWTON NEWKIRK 
eyes bugged out with excitement and the 
end of the story left him panting for breath. 
Next morning Zeke loaded our duffle on 
the buckboard and drove down river to¬ 
ward the lake. Nick and I preferred to 
walk. Josiah joined the procession. A 
short distance above where the river en¬ 
tered the lake we found an ideal spot to 
pitch the tent back a little way from the 
river at the edge of a pine grove. We 
had brought with us considerable grub 
and after making arrangements for Josiah 
to bring us butter, milk and eggs at inter¬ 
vals Zeke and his red-headed heir wished 
us good luck and departed. 
It was noon by the time we had the tent 
pinned down, fir-balsam bedding inside, 
wood cut and everything put to rights. By 
that time we were ready for canned pork- 
and-beans, bacon, biscuits and tea. 
P LASTER River was certainly an ideal 
stream for fly fishing. From top to 
bottom, as we afterward found, there 
were few places the angler could not wade. 
It was a series of rips and glassy pools 
with plenty of room for the back-cast. 
After we had strung up our rods I told 
Nick I would hike upstream along the tote 
road a mile or two and fish down while he 
started in fishing up and we would whip 
away until we met. Before I was out of 
sight he yelled, “I got one, Newt!—-’bout 
twelve ounces! They’re here, boy, they’re 
here!” Then I hot-footed it faster’n ever 
and kept up the pace for half an hour 
when I left the road and started fishing. 
The first pool yielded nothing, but when 
I flipped my fly on the one below it a 
speckled beaut came for the feathers like 
an angry little bull, got the barb well set 
in his upper jaw and fought out a pretty 
battle to a finish against my tough little 
five-ounce bamboo before I dipped him— 
a plump half-pounder. The next one (a 
size larger) in the same pool hadn’t been 
on two seconds until he took a turn around 
a root and bade me farewell. Leisurely I 
worked my way downstream enjoying 
every minute of that balmy June afternoon 
•—taking a trout here, missing a rise there 
and perhaps losing a fish over yonder. 
When I took stock I found I had half a 
dozen fish in my basket, then I quit—if 
Nick had as many we were sure of enough 
for supper. After passing several tempt¬ 
ing pools I saw my pal below me sprawled 
on the banks under the shade and pulling 
away at his pipe. 
“Well,” says I coming up, “how did you 
make out ?” “Eight small ones,” says he; 
“how many in your basket?” “Six,” says 
I, “but no whales.” “Say, Newt,” Nick 
goes on, “jevver see a sweller pool than 
this’11 in front of us?” Looking it over 
as I filled my pipe I had to confess I 
hadn’t. Altho deep the water was crystal 
clear and the boulder-strewn bottom could 
be made out in any part of it. On the 
farther side the trees shaded it and water 
slid into it from above as smooth as mo¬ 
lasses. That pool sure looked like a lurk¬ 
ing place for big ones. 
“How many did you yank out of there?” 
says I flopping down beside Nick. “That’s 
the curious part of it,” says he; “I lashed 
that puddle from head to tail,switched flies 
three times and never got a rise.” “Well,” 
says I, “that’s the way it goes—in the pool 
where you’re sure you’ll take an old boos¬ 
ter, there’s nothin’ doin’, but jest get to 
castin’ careless where you think they ain’t 
—and you find they IS! I tell you, Nicko- 
demus, it s the unexpected that always hap¬ 
pens in fishing.” “Right here,” says Nick, 
‘(you spilled a mouthful.” Well, we were 
sitting quietly, pulling away at our briers 
with our eyes on the pool and wondering 
why there were no trout in it, when sud¬ 
denly something happened! 
A LITTLE white moth-miller came zig¬ 
zagging out from the trees on the 
opposite side and started on its peril¬ 
ous flight across the pool. It had fluttered 
bravely over half its journey when a wisp 
of a breeze caught it in midair and 
turned it a summersault into the pool. 
Scarcely had it struck the water than up 
from the shadow of a boulder swiftly rose 
what I believe was the godfather of all 
Plaster River trout! At the surface he 
rolled on his side, half out of water, the 
bronze of him catching the sunlight. Then 
he opened his mouth, sucked in the flut¬ 
tering insect and when he submerged, hit 
the surface a slap with his big, broad tail 
that made the spray fly! Speechless, we 
watched him settle quietly down in the 
