25G 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Aug. 13, 1910. 
in the Face were bis friends and neighbors, and 
as to other tribes he writes of Chief Joseph. 
Captain Jack and other men well known in their 
day, but now almost forgotten. 
During his long intercourse with them he has 
proved himself the redntan’s friend and they 
have learned to value him. In the Indian de¬ 
partment he has come to be known as “the nego¬ 
tiator,’’ and when a matter requiring diplomacy 
or persuasion comes up, or a particularly obsti¬ 
nate tribe of Indians must be dealt with, Colonel 
McLaughlin is the one chosen for the task of 
handling them, and he is almost invariably suc¬ 
cessful. He understands the Indian and feels 
sympathy for him. and the Indian responds in 
kind. 
It may be imagined that during this long 
knowledge of a people so primitive in ways and 
in thought, and who were part of the time at 
war, there was much of interest and of exciter 
ment. The book is as fascinating as any novel, 
for what can be more interesting than to study 
the mind of primitive man. Colonel McLaugh¬ 
lin's chapters are full of descriptions of Indian 
ways, and of allusions to Indian customs and 
modes of thought, which are equally interesting 
to the layman and to the ethnologist. Besides 
this they all contain material for the historian. 
The volume is beautifully illustrated, chiefly by 
portraits of well known men, and is an excellent 
piece of bookmaking. 
Comrades of the Trail, by C. E. Theodore 
Roberts. Decorated cloth, octavo, 208 pages, 
illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull, $1.50. 
Boston, L. C. Page & Co. 
A young Englishman, an Indian trapper, an 
ex-bos’un gone mad and roaming the forests 
with a pet panther — these are the somewhat in¬ 
congruous characters in a story that will make 
its readers sit up and take notice, once they have 
become interested. The Indian teaches the 
Briton to become a skilled trapper, and they 
pass a winter in the wilds of Northern Quebec. 
But while the wolverines destroy their traps, it 
is another agency of destruction that mystifies 
them and finally leads to their acquaintance with 
the lunatic and his “tame panther.” What fol¬ 
lows is filled with amusing, pathetic and enter¬ 
taining incidents, and the woods lore itself is 
well worth the reading. 
Fishing Kits and Equipment, by Samuel G. 
Camp. Cloth, 144 pages, illustrated from 
photographs, $1 net. New York, the Out¬ 
ing Publishing Company. 
In these days when so much that is worthless 
to the angler is printed, it is refreshing to read 
one of the articles which Mr. Camp has written, 
for it is certain to be different. It is practical, 
and that is what the young angler wants—and 
the veteran, too, for that matter. In this little 
book Air. Camp’s best articles are brought to¬ 
gether in compact form, and it should be read 
by every fly-fisherman, for it is full of common 
sense fishing lore, written by a man who knows 
whereof he writes. While his advice is all 
sound, that which relates to the selection and 
care of the fishing equipment is particularly so, 
and he falls into few of the errors fishing 
writers frequently commit through lack of ex¬ 
haustive experimenting with this or that detail. 
For example, some of them say six- and eight- 
strip cane rods are equally serviceable, just be¬ 
cause the makers of each kind claim it is best. 
Mr. Camp’s approval of the six-strip rod is 
based on the fact that this method has the en¬ 
dorsement of a majority of the discerning ang¬ 
lers and has long been employed by the best 
makers. 
The Story of the American Merchant Marine, 
by John R. Spears. Cloth. 340 pages, illus¬ 
trated, $1.50 net. New York, the Macmillan 
Company. 
Readers of Air. Spears' “The Story of the New 
England Whalers” will find the present volume 
fully as interesting as his earlier work. Open¬ 
ing with a chronicle of the” profitable cod fish¬ 
eries on the Newfoundland Banks, which led to 
the building of the first American sailing vessel 
in 1607, and continuing through the rise, supre¬ 
macy and decline of American shipping, giving 
cause and effect. Air. Spears has performed a 
work that is of the highest order and one that 
should be read carefully by every citizen. 
Two Days’ Bluefishing. 
We planned it during a bass fishing trip in 
July one evening when, after long hours of tire¬ 
some floundering through the rifts, we had re¬ 
turned to camp with well nigh empty creels and 
were lying comfortably stretched out in front 
of the tent enjoying the after-supper smoke. We 
had been in camp for over a week without any 
good luck, and as our leave of absence was 
nearly over, we both felt a bit down-hearted and 
were telling each other how welcome a little 
really good fishing would be. 
“Tell you what we might do,” said Billy sud¬ 
denly, as he tossed a couple of dry pine slivers 
on the fire. “There’s an old chap I know down 
at Great South Bay who used to take father and 
me out bluefishing every summer. He’s a rough 
sort of an old duck, but good-hearted and honest 
to the core, and he knows the bay like a book. 
If you’re game to try it I think we can make 
arrangements to stay at his shanty a couple of 
days and go out with him. If there are any 
blues about he’ll know where to find them, for 
he makes his living fishing for the market. What 
do you say?” 
While Billy was speaking there rose in my 
mind memories of a former experience on salt 
water, when a party of us in a little sloop had 
tossed about for a day and a night inside Sandy 
Hook while a fierce southeaster drove even the 
big boats to shelter. Now those memories, while 
distinctly vivid, were not remarkable for their 
pleasantness, for it was om that trip that I was 
initiated into the mysteries of seasickness and 
that awful feeling which someone who undoubt¬ 
edly had “been there” has described as being 
“afraid one minute you’ll die and the next 
minute afraid you won’t.” But the prospect of 
good fishing and Billy’s assurances that Great 
South Bay seldom kicked up its heels to any 
uncomfortable extent were strong attractions, so 
the upshot of it was that after our return to the 
city we planned to spend the Labor day holiday 
with the old captain and try our luck with the 
blues. 
As August drew toward its close there came 
a letter from the captain saying that the fish 
were striking freely, and that by the early part 
of September the trolling ought to be fine. So 
it was in a very cheerful frame of mind that I 
left the office on the Saturday before Labor day 
and took the Long Island train for Babylon. 
Billy had gone down the day before, after giv¬ 
ing me directions to take a car from the station 
to the wharf where he and the captain would 
be waiting with the boat, and as I stepped off 
the train at the sleepy little village, the car hove 
in sight, drawn by a couple of old horses that 
seemed bowed down under some heavy burden, 
possibly the weight of their years. I have for¬ 
gotten the exact wording of the weather-beaten 
sign that hung above the driver’s head—it was 
some such comprehensive title as “Babylon 
Street Railway Company, Incorporated,” but it 
looked promising, and on being assured by the 
conductor that they hoped to reach the wharf 
before dark, I got aboard and we bumped away 
down the dusty street toward the open meadows 
and the sweet smell of the salt water. 
Cap and Billy were waiting at the dock, hav¬ 
ing sailed over from Fire Island early in the 
afternoon, and as we headed out across the bay 
toward the cabin at the inlet, which would be 
our headquarters for the next two days, Billy 
uncovered a big tub in the cockpit of the boat 
and disclosed the morning’s catch. It consisted 
of some eighteen or twenty handsome bluefish 
ranging from two to four pounds’ weight, care¬ 
fully packed away in ice until they could be sent 
to market, and Billy was loud in his praises of 
the sport they had furnished. The whole propo¬ 
sition looked good, and it was with very light 
hearts that we finally turned into the creek lead¬ 
ing to Cap’s place and disembarked just as the 
rain, which had been threatening all the after¬ 
noon, began to come down steadily, driving slant¬ 
ingly across the meadows before the southerly 
wind. Inside the cabin it was snug and dry, and 
after a hearty supper we sat about the table 
