Week-End Rambles. 
II.—The Same Old Story. 
Of all the outdoor sports, fly-fishing for trout 
is, in my opinion, by far the best. It has never 
failed to maintain a hold on its votaries. Be¬ 
cause the brook trout can endure civilization and 
lends itself readily to artificial propagation, 
coupled with a growing tendency on the part of 
the general public to co-operate in the demand 
for wiser and better enforced laws for their con¬ 
servation, this fish will retain its place at the 
head of the list in the interest of American 
anglers. 
The trout are the autocrats of fishdom. Whim¬ 
sical and fastidious in their daily life, they dwell 
in babbling country brooks and romantic moun¬ 
tain rivers. The most capricious and ablest of 
all game fish, their habits and idiosyncrasies are 
problems that three centuries of trout fishermen 
have failed to solve. To-day they rise to the 
fly, to-morrow they sulk, one hour they may take 
bait and the next is full of uncertainties as to 
what course they will pursue. 
While My Lady was but a recruit in the van¬ 
guard of anglers, she was anxious to master fly¬ 
casting. Decoration Day gave us an additional 
forty-eight hours for our trip, and where to 
pitch our week-end camp was a question hard to 
dispose of. One man finds the answer near 
home, in a typical trout stream of the farm 
lands. Another man wanders afar to the trout 
streams of the wilderness. 
It is not necessary to travel far to find an 
answer to the all absorbing question. Famous 
streams like the Neversink River, Esopus Creek, 
Snider Hollow and Stony Clove brooks and 
Mahwah Creek are all within four hours’ journey 
of New York city. Further up State there are 
others perhaps not so well known, but equally 
as promising; in fact, ten good trout streams 
can be found where only one existed thirty 
years ago. We selected a branch of the Sus¬ 
quehanna and expressed our baggage to a town 
nine miles below its font where we intended 
to commence fishing. 
The sun was peeking over the tree-crowned 
crests when we alighted from our train. The 
old station was deserted, and we were in a 
quandary as to which of the three narrow streets 
led to the creek. Where were the countryside’s 
proverbial early risers? As the general slope of 
the country was toward the west, we turned our 
backs to the sun and set out to locate the brook 
unaided. It was the hour when the bird voices 
are at their best. The picturesque upper reaches 
of the northeast branch of the Susquehanna 
glides through meadow and vale, past o'd mills 
and under bridges, and through fields of alders 
and banks of willows. H,ere and there a fisher¬ 
man stumbles suddenly upon a beauty spot that 
surprises and delights, and makes him feel well 
recompensed for the day even though he returns 
with but a brace of small fish. 
Beside a sweep of wide water glimmering 
through a forest of white birch, maple, spruce 
and oak we jointed our rods. Weather condi¬ 
tions were ideal. Insect life was abundant. The 
water had been warmed by the spring sunshine 
and the creek had resumed its normal level and 
clarity. Tradition had it that the stream was 
inhabited by big trout, but on that particular 
morning it suited their fancy to resist tempta¬ 
tion during the very best fishing period of the 
day. 
From long sleepy stretches of wide water to 
riffles gurgling over the rock-strewn bed, from 
dark pools half obscured by the roots of over¬ 
hanging trees to others concealed by willows and 
alders, we fished contentedly, wandering down 
the ever widening valley, dropping our flies 
under bridges, beside old roots, close to over¬ 
hanging banks and in white water which rushed 
noisily around curves. 
The trout is no respecter of persons. The 
cumbersome cast of the novice is as likely 
to rouse his interest and bring a strike as the 
scientifically correct effort of the expert. My 
Lady demonstrated that he lives, moves and 
feeds according to the dictates of his own in¬ 
stinct. She dropped her flies in a decaying 
wheelpit of an old vertical sawmill where I had 
been fishing, and lo, up from the depths came a 
big brown trout. She struck an instant too late. 
He had detected the deception and dropped the 
fly. Probably he was the only fish in the pool, 
for no others could be brought to the surface, 
and he steadfastly refused to strike a second 
time. 
A mile or so below the mill I crawled through 
a mass of bushes and weeds to fish a promising 
pool that could be reached in no other way. It 
was the irony of fate that after I had whipped 
the pool a half hour without result that a griz¬ 
zled old farmer should emerge from the bushes 
on the other side and drop a black gnat within 
three inches of a half submerged log where I 
had dropped my own flies a dozen times and take 
a seventeen-inch trout from the water. Back went 
the fly and up came another big one. Chagrined 
and a trifle disheartened I wandered down the 
stream until I overhauled My Lady. 
Down the valley the white spire of the village 
church glistened in the sunlight, and tired and 
weary with our long tramp, we decided to fore¬ 
go our fishing for the day for the comforts of 
camp. Outside of the public domain it is well 
to seek out the owner of the land and obtain 
his consent before putting up your tent. Usually 
a dollar bill and a good cigar will recompense 
him for the privilege and the drift and riffraff 
your fire may consume, besides assuring you of 
a hearty welcome if you should chance to return. 
We selected a pasture corner and pitched our 
tent with its back to a clump of scrub and pre¬ 
pared our evening meal in peace .and comfort. 
What could have been more appetizing than 
our supper, eaten on the green sward by the 
open fire? We consumed our brown bread and 
baked potatoes, old-fashioned country cured ham, 
broiled to a turn on a forked stick over a bed 
of coals, and a heaping plate of milk weed greens 
— truly an innovation in camp cookery that no 
gross male cook would have had the audacity to 
attempt serving. 
Sunday—let me whisper it—before the sun 
loomed over the sky line, we went fishing—just 
a pleasant little excursion—and returned with¬ 
out a fin to show for our efforts. Nevertheless 
we were happy with the satisfaction of knowing 
that a well-earned vacation trip had not been 
barren of enjoyment, although we had not taken 
a single fish. Carl Schurz Shafer. 
Carp on the Fly. 
Rock Island, Ill., Oct. 20 .—Editor Forest and 
Stream: In June of the present year while fly¬ 
fishing one of the seepage ditches of the Henne¬ 
pin Canal, I observed a school of carp swimming 
slowly along near the surface of the water. 
Thinking I would try to snag one, I cast at 
them and was surprised to have one rise quickly 
to the fly, a silver doctor. I struck and fastened 
him and must say he put up a pretty stiff fight, 
and when landed weighed about two pounds. 
It is not unusual in fly-fishing for bass to hook 
a dogfish, gar or pike, but this is the first I ever 
heard of a carp taking the fly. Query: Will the 
carp now be considered a game fish? 
Willard A. Schaeffer. 
[Carp, catfish and suckers are all taken on 
artificial lures, surface or underwater, but not 
frequently. In clear water we have often noticed 
that when a fly falls on the surface over a 
group of carp, one or more will rise, as if to 
take the fly or to determine its character, but it 
is rare for one to approach the counterfeit 
closely. Any lure in motion seems to frighten 
them away. — Editor.] 
Death of Samuel Allcock. 
Samuel Ai.lcock died on Oct. 14 at his home 
in Redditch, England. His age was eighty-one 
years. He was the head of the great firm of 
fishing tackle makers that bears his name, one 
of the largest enterprises of its kind in the 
world, with branches in London. France, Spain 
and Canada. 
At the International Exhibition in Brussels last 
summer the firm lost its entire exhibit in the 
fire which destroyed so much valuable property. 
Beside rods and reels which possessed great his¬ 
toric value, there were medals and diplomas 
awarded at other international exhibitions, and 
these cannot be replaced. 
Fish Frightened by a Submarine Bell. 
In the harbor at Calais there is a submarine 
bell which is operated by electricity during fogs. 
The anglers maintain that when a fog comes up 
while they are fishing, and the current is turned 
on, all of the fish cease biting. The vibration, 
the fishermen assert, is plainly felt through their 
lines, and this they conclude frightens the fish. 
As soon as the current is turned off the bell, the 
fish resume biting. 
