The Pleasures of Fly-Fishing. 
Often the mind turns longingly to the wooded 
streams, creeks and runs of dear old Michigan, 
and the lower peninsula leaves an impress on the 
angler’s mind that age does not dim nor time 
efface. 
A few miles back from Traverse City, beside 
a rapid winding stream, stood one log cabin and 
a frame shanty bearing this inscription, “Hotel.” 
The stream at this time was famous for its 
trout, and the trout for their gaminess and color¬ 
ation. These two shanties composed a city of 
the future, its streets as yet the woody laby¬ 
rinths of grand old forest trees, as yet unshorn 
by the pioneer of civilization. We pulled a row¬ 
boat twelve miles to get to this stream. Once 
in the mouth the oars were dropped and the 
pushing pole taken up. The stream is narrow, 
to the surface by the half dozen—vicious little 
fingerlings, but the big fellows! Ah! There’s 
one of them rising to a big brown chafer or 
buzz bug that frequents oaks and maples. 
My nine-foot looped leader has been soaking 
in a tin can for an hour. I bend it on my line, 
put on a big brown hackle for a tail fly and a 
gray professor for a dropper, take a seat in the 
stern of the boat and cast out in the whirling 
waters at the foot of the rapids. Something 
rose! The flies drifted on; we saw a trout rise 
again, but somehow we had not caught on. While 
retrieving the line a good-sized trout jumped 
clear from the water, missed the flies, but we 
missed the trout. 
Never mind, it was fun. No need to get ner¬ 
vous ; plenty more in that hole. They do not 
know what flies are; keep cool, we will get them 
yet. Thus we soliloquized. 
until we imagine the creek must have a pike in 
it, and we have got the pike, and it’s a big one, 
but as the fish comes to the surface there is no 
question about fontinalis. Quickly slipping the 
landing net under him we land him in the boat, 
as handsome a fish as ever came to a fly, and a 
pound and a half in weight. 
It made no difference what fly—yellow mays, 
Portlands, grasshopper, hooker, coachman, Seth- 
Green, oriole, hackles, anything else—the little 
fellows jumped for all of them. I used big lake 
flies, even some salmon flies, and caught a creel 
of trout weighing from three-quarters of a pound 
up. I had small midges in my book and could 
have caught and counted my trout by the hun¬ 
dred, but I did not kill a single small trout. 
Drifting down stream I cast ahead of my boat 
and had just the same grand sport—no need to use 
worms; trout came to every cast if I wanted them. 
e. t. townsend’s last tuna. 
A reproduction from a photograph made at the New York Aquarium at the time the tuna was identified by Dr. Raymond C. Osburn. Its length was 34t4 inches; weight, 
about two days out of the water, 26% pounds; a young tuna. It was taken with rod and reel several miles off the New Jersey coast, near Asbury Park. 
swift and tortuous. Along its bottom could be 
seen stumps, old trees and roots, and at intervals 
could be seen fishlike forms. The surroundings 
were trouty; the only question came up, are they 
big ones? 
Let us push on up stream as far as the rapids. 
We can try for these fellows as we drift down. 
A sharp push and tug for an hour and we cover 
the mile, then rest at the foot of the rapids with 
the boat tied to the arm of a fallen tree, but 
we are warm and feel the mosquitoes buzzing at 
us. The sharp poling up stream has started the 
perspiration from every pore, and as we rest, 
trout can be seen rising to any object coming 
from the rapids. Quietly putting together a 
handsome split bamboo rod that had to be bap¬ 
tized and dedicated to the elegant art of fly¬ 
fishing, opening a book filled with gems, we turn 
the overflowing pages. What shall I use? Grays, 
whites, red browns, yellows, black and gold, 
silver and tinsel in almost every shade and hue, 
and names known in fish lore. Hackles! These 
trout are barbarians, anyhow. They know noth¬ 
ing of flies. A brown maple leaf brings them 
How pleasant to sit here alone and listen to 
the droning hum of nature’s bass, to watch the 
coming waters. Here is a big green caterpillar 
coming down stream; will the dainty trout rise 
for it? 
Ugh, the beast. A big trout rose almost under 
the tip of my rod and quietly sucked the fat 
monster in. My very skin creeps along my back 
as I think of it. 
Laying out thirty feet of line as gently as we 
knew how, and watching how the tail-fly fell 
as it came down. Ah! that’s perfection. “No 
snowflake ever kissed the water prettier.” 
Wh-i-r-r, b-u-z-z, a miniature leviathan must 
have taken my tail-fly and is bound for Lake 
Michigan, twenty miles distant. “Never be in 
a hurry except when going for a doctor,” so my 
reel still whistled and screamed. Let her scream. 
If the fish is so big that I am likely to be pulled 
into the rapids, why I can swim. The thumb 
gets some pressure on the revolving plates, and 
we get hold of the handle and begin to fight 
him. Inch by inch he contests our claim and 
will not yield. The little rod bends and springs 
Two days after this I was in another stream 
where I used every kind of fly in my book, and 
could not raise a single trout. I could see one 
lying on a sandwash. I fished for him two 
hours. During that time I lay hidden behind 
the maple brush and watched him rise at every 
leaf that came down stream. It was a hand¬ 
some trout of ten inches length, and I was going 
to have it if I stayed there all day. I sat and 
watched until I saw it rise to every green leaf 
and float down underneath it as if in search for 
something. I have it, my beauty! You’re mine, 
unless you get sight of me. 
Taking out my penknife I cut a small maple 
leaf across to the center vein, bent on a small 
black fly, and switched out into the stream, ran 
my snell through the leaf, leaving the tiny hook 
underneath. I cast about a yard above him. He 
rose instantly and went for that leaf, but no 
examining this time. He struck. I was sure 
of him, and though the gut was as fine as the 
finest hair, I landed him at my feet a victim of 
his own inquisitiveness. > 
Coming down stream I dropped my flies about 
