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COMPASS CasB 
These are the genuine Creaghe-Osborne March- 
ing Compasses which were made for the army 
by the Buch ye Gyroscope Co., N. Y., at a cost 
of $24.50 eac 
Postage l5c 
Sale Price, 95c ae 
New U. S. Army 
Leather Jerkins 
$3.45 
Postage 30c Extra 
These Jerkins are 
made of choice lea- 
3, ther and have O. D. 
wool Melton lining. 
Sizes 36 to 46. 
All goods sold sub- 
“4| ject to your exami- 
4 nation. 






ortess Te [Dz 

ia 

23 General Camp Outfitters 
MICHIGAN TENT & AWNING CO. 
1739 Lysander Street Detroit, Michigan 


THE LION nortuno’s 
Automatic 
Landing Gaff 
Touch the fish with the trigger 
in centre of gaff and the jaws 
will close with lightning speed. 
Say, Pal, remember the great granddaddy of 
them all, behind the middle rock in White Water 
Riffles ? 
You played him with every bit of skill and 
energy you possessed for over an hour, and then 
at the touch of the Net—!!?—the same old 
story, and it is always the prize-winner that gets 
away. Norlund’s Lion Gaff is faster than any 
fish that ever lived and their hand-filed teeth will 
not mutilate the fish. Land your big ones, and 
win your prize. No. 1 (for Salmon, Muskies, 
ete.) ; price, $2.00. No. 2 (for Bass, Trout and 
Pike); price, $1.50. Norlund Steel Spears, 
guaranteed to stand the rocks, $1.50 each. 
Write for name of nearest Dealer, or send 
Money Order direct to 
Oo. A. NORLUND CO. 
Dept. F. Williamsport, Pa. 
Write for our 
Sportsmen’s 
Book 
Catalog 
FOREST & STREAM PUB. CO. 
221 W. 57th St. New York City 
In writing to Advertisers mention Forest and Stream. 




The Old Cane Johnny 
Looking Back at the Old Cane Pole of Our 
Boyhood Days 
By DRee Vou neER HOLT 
VER so often we read in some one 
of the sporting magazines an at- 
tack on the cane fishing pole, the old 
cane Johnny. Why is this? - Why do 
the (supposedly) up-to-date fisher- 
men deride that good old pal? I for 
one am anxious to put a stop to it, for 
the old cane Johnny ever has, does now, 
and ever will bring to me some of the 
fondest memories of my childhood. 
Yes, I, too, have swung the split: 
bamboo, and over some of the swiftest, 
i|most rapid, yet withal deep - pooled 
strams of this continent; also I have 
likewise swung the limber steel; mon- 
sters have fought at the other end of 
these educated rods, perhaps as good 
fish as others have caught, trout up to 
thirty pounds; but thoughts of it all 
don’t bring to me the fond memories 
that come when I think of my old cane 
pole with which I landed the goggle eye, 
the crappie and the black bass in my 
childhood days. 
Are there not others who will come 
to the defense of the good old Johnny? 
Surely there are. I cannot believe that 
I alone hold dear the old cane pole. 
Yet if there are others they have not 
made themselves heard. 
The latest tirade I have read against 
the cane pole is in a quite recent num- 
ber of FOREST AND STREAM. From 
that article I get it that the fellow 
with the cane pole was having all the 
luck —or maybe it wasn’t luck; per- 
haps he knew how to do it. This gen- 
tleman of the old school, so our writer 
tells us, fished with a pole fifteen feet 
long and a line six feet long. And yet 
the writer tells us that he landed his 
bass “a dozen yards in a cornfield.” 
With an outfit tweny-one feet long he 
landed them back thirty-six feet! Truly 
that old Johnny pole was going some! 
To me this false statement is about 
on a par with what we usually read 
when some youngster up and tells us 
all about how the thing ought to be 
done. 
Twenty years from now, perhaps 
earlier the way the old world is moving, 
our kids will up and cuss the present- 
day bamboo. Maybe some sort of sub- 
marine device will come forth that will 
hunt out the fish and run them through 
from one end to the other. But wouldn’t 
we old-timers (of today), or at least 
some of us, get up on our toes and 
defend the bamboo and the steel rod? 
Of course. 
It will identify you. 
Since leaving the old Kentucky home, 
some seventeen years ago, I confess I 
have forsaken the old cane pole. A 
long, slender, high-priced split-bamboo 
has taken its place. The waters of the 
west I have pretty well covered, from 
the headquarters of the Columbia in 
Montana down through Idaho, Wash- 
ington, Oregon, Nevada and California, 
clear to the Mexican line. Rainbow, 
Dolly Varden, cutthroat, mackinaw, 
salmon, yes, and even the beautiful 
California golden trout, whose habitat 
alone is the icy waters of the high 
Sierras. And at those times, when the 
gamey trout were coming to my basket, 
I said to myself, ‘‘Truly this is the king 
of all sports.” But tonight, on a De- 
cember evening before Christmas, when 
I am away from it all, and when J am 
thinking back, I know that my pleasant- 
est hours at the streams’ edge were the 
days with my good old friend, the cane 
Johnny. 
I write this article from California. 
But tonight I see again the dogwood 
blooming on the Kentucky hills. 
I walk down the railroad track and 
take to the dirt road, and down there 
a mile away I hear the familiar roar 
at the dam across old Tradewater 
River. I hustle along, tucking my can 
of worms under one arm, and in my 
other hand I am swinging my old 
Johnny pole, keeping step with the 
music made by the early grasshoppers, 
the red-bird, joree and blue jay. The 
roar of the falls is music to my ears, 
and I hustle along some more, mean- 
while unwrapping the line from my 
pole. My hook is baited when I step 
onto a rock below the dam, and before 
I set down the can of worms I have 
thrown the hook in under—where the 
waters of the forebay meet the main 
current; down on the rock I sit, with 
feet dangling to the cool water and 
every muscle tense for the first bite. 
Then again I am headed for a certain 
deep hole, the sun has set, the shadows 
from the oak and maple are stretching 
across the meadow. Under one arm I 
am carrying a chunk of liver—bought 
for a nickel in those days—and in my 
other hand I am swinging the old 
Johnny pole. Yep, you’ve guessed it, 
brothers, I’m after the lowly cat! 
Hooking on a piece of liver that would 
cost a whole dime now, I throw it in, 
the bait just toughing bottom, the line 
about two-thirds the length of the pole 
Page 98 
