Week-End Rambles. 
IV.—Nomadic PI easures. 
Three times we had pitched our tent in a 
woodlot and three times we had proven to our 
own satisfaction that one can camp in a farm 
country and have many experiences as interest¬ 
ing and enjoyable as in the wilderness. All 
were week-end fishing trips and each had made 
us acquainted with some new phase of nature 
that men who travel in elaborately equipped cara¬ 
vans, with a retinue of guides, seldom, if ever, 
experience. All had been spiced with the true 
flavor of out-of-doors, and we had grown to 
ANTICIPATION. 
Photograph by H. B. Miller. 
look forward to the week’s end with, much the 
same eagerness as the small boy awaits the com¬ 
ing of a circus. 
We had planned two black bass fishing trips 
for June, but owing to the unexpected arrival 
of guests who abhorred the idea of camping, we 
were obliged to postpone our bass excursion until 
the second week in July. 
Several bass streams within an hour's ride by 
trolley, offering fair prospects for good sport, 
were considered and rejected because every 
Saturday afternoon and Sunday their shores 
were ranged by picnickers and budding fishermen 
who 1 found more pleasure in loud, boisterous 
songs than in angling. In the end we determined 
to return to our first camp on the banks of a 
little Catskill Mountain lake. 
As fly-casting is the top notch of bass angling, 
and as I practice it in preference to all other 
forms wherever possible, I was anxious to begin 
our day’s sport at dawn Saturday morning. A 
little extra work made our departure on Friday 
afternoon possible, and 5:30 found us at the end 
of our railroad journey, ready to take up our 
three-mile tramp into the hills. Throughout the 
day the city had been like an oven, but what a 
difference in the mountains. Clear and bell-like 
a hound’s deep tonguings reverberated from 
ridge to ridge as we approached the lake, and 
suddenly a fox dashed from the underbrush, and 
leaping to a fence raced along its top for several 
yards. Opposite a meadow swale he jumped 
into the grass and disappeared. It was a trick 
that enabled him to elude the dog, and the chase 
ended abruptly. 
Putting our temporary home in order we dined 
by the camp-fire’s light and stretched ourselves 
out to enjoy the quiet attractions of a primitive 
life for the time being. 
Refreshed and invigorated by a sound sleep in 
the open, we rolled from our blankets before 
dawn in time to see a great small-mouthed bass 
leap for some insect. We wanted a fish for 
breakfast, and with our rods pushed through 
the dew-covered bushes to a neck of land jutting 
out into the lake within easy casting distance of 
the spot where the fish had left the water. 
A coachman and a hackle danced and fluttered 
on the placid surface, one set on each side of 
the narrow peninsula, and presently we each had 
a big one well hooked. Rods curved and trem¬ 
bled. There was no chance for me to offer My 
Lady advice, for my attention was required to 
keep my captive in hand. My Lady succeeded 
in beaching her catch, but I was not so fortu¬ 
nate. The fish out-generaled me, entangling the 
leader in a root, from which I finally released 
him with My Lady’s help, and we hurried back 
to the tent to satisfy our hunger. 
Broiled black bass, new potatoes, brown bread 
and fragrant coffee made a satisfying meal. If 
you have never eaten a freshly caught black bass 
broiled over the fire, you have missed much. Let 
me tell you how it is done: If you have a good 
sized fish, dress it and split it down along the 
backbone, being careful not to entirely sever the 
flesh, then rub well with salt and pepper. Cut 
a crotched hardwood stick and insert one prong 
through each section and suspend close to the 
fire until done. A strip of bacon over each 
prong, so that the grease will drip down over 
the fish as it tries out, will expedite the cooking 
and add to the flavor. 
We had intended to devote our entire time to 
angling, but while loitering about camp, a distant 
hilltop, scarred by the ruins of an abandoned 
quarry, awakened a desire in us to explore its 
pits and ledges. After two hours of climbing 
we stood on the summit. Before us lay farm¬ 
land and comfortable homes, far removed from 
wretchedness and squalor. Beneath our feet lay 
the ruins and decay of an industry, crushed by 
more accessible fields and abandoned. 
Returning to camp, we resumed fishing late 
in the afternoon and found the bass on their 
feeding ground as eager and voracious as during 
the early morning. Big and little ones plunged 
recklessly for our flies. Never have I seen bass 
so active, even in remote, seldom-fished waters. 
Out of fifteen we saved five of the larger ones, 
and as a single fish was sufficient for our re¬ 
quirements, we presented the others to the far¬ 
mer on whose land we were encamped. From 
him we learned that still-fishing was the prevail¬ 
ing method employed by local anglers, and that 
the most common bait was crawfish and little 
frogs, while occasional catches were made on a 
trolling spoon. 
All Saturday night a shrill frog chorus drown¬ 
ed out every other nocturnal noise. Next day, 
after sacrificing my red necktie for the good 
REALIZATION. 
Photograph by H. B. Miller. 
of the cause, we started out for frogs. It takes 
a sharp eye to detect a green frog in the grass, 
but after we had made the trip around the lake 
we had a hundred pairs of frog legs to take to 
town with us that night. 
Carl Schurz Shafer. 
The Turtle Followed Them. 
Omaha, Neb., Nov. 12.— Editor Forest and 
Stream: Talking about hungry black bass jump¬ 
ing from the water to nab the angler’s lure, Hon. 
Edward Stout and Judge Smyth had an unusual 
experience out at Hangers Lake, below Water¬ 
loo, recently. 
“We were fishing for late croppie,” said the 
judge, “and had stuck the butts of our poles in 
the bank, while we ate lunch back on the grass 
a ways. When perceiving his float slowly mov¬ 
ing out into the lake, Smyth went and pulled it 
