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lie will finish those up. I want to 
get out early before someone pinches 
the boat. The Skipper said he was not 
going to use his skiff this morning. 
Grab that tackle box and landing net. 
Let’s be off.” 
Ke we moved down the path toward 
the neighboring camp a busy little 
wire-haired fox terrier greeted us, and 
the Skipper hailed us from the door of 
his neat little cabin. 
“Going to try your luck this morn- 
ing, Doctor? It looks good out there. 
I had a grand strike just off the lily 
pads yesterday afternoon as I was com- 
ing in. There’s a big fellow in that 
little channel we always fish in. Take 
the boat and my tackle if you’ve a mind 
to. I don’t reckon I’ll go out this morn- 
ing. It was my day yesterday. I caught 
three bass. Better take the minnow 
trap with you and set it on the far 
shore while you fish. I don’t feel 
natural fishin’ without live bait. 
to take Dick, eh?” The Skipper’s 
weatherbeaten face broke out in a 
broad, kindly smile. “Well, you bring 
home a big one, boy.” 
AS the shore of the lake the fishing 
tackle was again overhauled. Some- 
where from the bottom of one of the 
boats the defunct body of a much- 
maligned yellow perch was unearthed, 
and a few deft slashes of a sharp knife 
removed the two ventral fins and a 
long slice of white belly. This was 
carefully adjusted to the Skipper’s pet 
spinner which he and I had made 
a few evenings before by slipping 
a medium-size hook through the eye of 
a large pickerel hook in such a way that 
the two hung “tandem.” The eye of 
the upper hook was attached to the end 
wire of an ordinary trolling spinner, 
having first removed the feathered 
gang hooks. In weedy pickerel ground 
the gang hooks are a continuous source 
of trouble, annoyance and profanity, 
besides lacking the sportsmanlike fea- 
tures of single hook or tandem hook 
contrivances. Because of its simplicity, 
Page 265 
Goin’. 
(Adal 
M) 
/, 
if hii wll i f 


the Shimmy Wiggler is a good lure for 
skittering. 
When all was ready we pushed out 
from shore, stopping for a moment to 
scoop up a netful of nice minnows 
from the bait-well a few feet from 
shore. It was indeed an ideal morning 
for fishing. There was just enough 
tang to the clear Maine air to make the 
occasional bursts of warm _ sunlight 
through the high-hanging clouds de- 
lightfully grateful. Far to the west 
loomed the blue outlines of the Presi- 
dential Range of the White Mountains, 
with the great peak of Mount Wash- 
ington, the noblest of them all, tower- 
ing gray in the extreme background. 
On all sides of the lake stretched the 
great forest, broken occasionally by 
patches of cleared ground on the hill- 
sides, or open spaces along the shore 
where some camper had nestled his 
cabin. A long, low stretch of green 
blending with the blue-gray of the 
western end of the lake told of a great 
bog, teeming with pickerel, but so over- 
grown with gigantic pond lilies that 
casting was hopeless. We looked long- 
ingly at it as always, but headed our 
boat for a less dense fringe of lilies 
along our own shore. 
rahe the oars for a while, Dick,” I 
suggested, “I’m going to try cast- 
ing along here. Just keep her moving 
steadily, and don’t make any more 
noise than you can help. I want to see 
whether they are biting today.” 
Dick shifted his position, and I took 
my place in the stern. A trout rod is 
not adapted to casting heavy spinners, 
and it is easy to break a tip in jerking 
a lily out of water. But it is also ac- 
curate to an uncanny degree when it 
comes to dropping the spoon on the 
little patch of open water near which 
the pickerel are lurking. After the 
third cast there was a swirl and the 
spinner disappeared. Zip! I struck 
and the lure flew fifteen feet in the air, 
landing in a bed of pads. I reeled in 
the tangle of line busily. 
“Keep her going, Dick. That wasn’t 
a very big one, but they’re biting. 
Move on farther out. The pads are too 
thick in here.” 
HE next cast was more successful, 
and in a few seconds a small, but 
eatable pickerel lay in the boat. We 
had reached the limit of our pet cast- 
ing ground now, so I motioned to Dick 
to let the boat drift. 
“Now, Kid, you’re going to have your 
first shot of real skittering for pick- 
erel. Hand me that big pole.” 
The boy clambered to his feet and 
grabbed the fifteen-foot bamboo rod. 
It looked ridiculously heavy for him, 
but he is a husky ten-year-old, built 
“from the ground up,” and I knew he 
could manage it. 
“The first thing to remember is that 
skittering is not exactly like casting, 
nor trolling, but is a sort of cross be- 
tween them. Just swing your pole back 
of you, holding it with your two hands 
rather far apart. When the spinner 
is well out behind you, bring the tip 
of the pole sharply in the direction you 
want the spinner to go, but do it so 
that the line stays taut and swings 
almost over the pole. Then when it 
hits the water you can move your pole 
in any direction you want to, and the 
spinner will follow it immediately just 
under the surface of the water. If 
you let the line come down slack the 
whole business of bait and spinner will 
sink instantly and will tangle in the 
weeds below the surface. 
“RINGO try it, and don’t handle that 
pole like a kid glove. Snap into 
it! Try it again. No, no, no! You 
do it as if you were trying not to wake 
the baby. Slap her down as if you 
meant it. There! That’s better. Try 
her again. Now swing her for that bit 
of open water there and drag her to- 
wards the channel, to your left! TO 
YOUR LEFT! Oh! Heck! Wait till 
{ back her a bit. You’re all snarled 
in the pads. Just keep that line straight 
when you sling her out. That spinner 
(Continued on page 294) 
