FOREST 
Vol. XCIV No. 6 

PSTREAM 
June - 1924 
Pale Nope All-of ‘Fishing46 Fish 
A Story of Bass in Ozark Waters 
By America’s Best Loved Angler 
beautiful morning in October that 
I left the charming little town of 
Rosedale, in the heart of the cotton 
belt of the Delta, for a drive of a mile 
to the landing on the Mississippi river. 
Years ago when the town was founded 
it stood on the left bank of the Father 
of Waters, but owing to the constant 
changes in his pranks during the sea- 
sons of floods, the banks were often cut 
away on one side of the river and 
added to the other side, hence by con- 
stant accretion Rosedale is now a mile 
from the river. 
The short drive was one of unceasing 
delight. The oaks, maples and pecans 
were in gay and gorgeous attire and 
displayed all the tints of the painter’s 
palette, while the air was vocal with 
song, a symphonic matinee in which 
were heard the rhapsodies of the mock- 
ing bird, the clear pipe of the cardinal 
grosbeak, and the flutelike notes of the 
wood thrush. Everything’ seemed to 
be propitious for an enjoyable day, an 
ideal one for a trip up the river. I 
found my colored factotum waiting for 
me at the landing with his boat fully 
equipped. My rods, creel and other 
tackle, with rubber hip boots, together 
with a 22-caliber repeating rifle were 
carefully deposited in the cockpit, to- 
gether with a hamper of appetizing 
viands, -all of which betokened the 
ostensible purpose of fishing, shooting 
and the pursuit of happiness. We were 
bound up White river, in the state of 
Arkansas, or rather Arkansaw, whose 
mouth was half a dozen miles above, 
and about the same distance below was 
the mouth of the Arkansaw River, where 
it mingled its roily tide with the great 
Mississippi. The two rivers, Arkan- 
saw and White, although their mouths 
are in such close proximity, are as 
unlike as day and night. The Arkan- 
saw is three times as long as the White, 
and after leaving its sources in the 
mountains of the far West flows 
Page 325 
| T WAS at sunrise on a bright and 
DR. JAMES ALEXANDER HENSHALL 

Dr. James Alexander Henshall 
Dean of American anglers 
through level plains and becomes as 
turbid as the great Missouri itself, and 
next to that river is the largest tribu- 
tary of the Father of Waters, and like 
it contains only coarse and common 
fishes. 
On the other hand, White river, as 
its name denotes, is a clear, cool stream 
for its entire length. Born of the moun- 
tain springs of the Ozarks it rolls and 
tumbles for awhile in Missouri before 
entering Arkansaw. The upper portion 
of the beautiful river is remarkable for 
its uniform cool temperature and its 
transparency. Its limpid, pellucid vol- 
ume, like most of the Ozark streams, 
goes dimpling and gurgling over the 
riffles, and dashing and splashing over 
the rocky ledges, sparkling and scintil- 
lating under the blue and bright south- 
ern sky. It is an ideal stream for small- 
mouth black bass, which, by the way, 
are the bravest and brightest in color 
of any within my ken. 
Both of the rivers mentioned, for a 
hundred miles or more, were like an 
open book to my boatman, who rejoiced 
in the trinominal of Jeff Davis Dixon. 
His regular occupation was towing saw- 
logs from both rivers to the mills at 
Greenville. For this purpose he used a 
high-power motor boat, and its poten- 
tial virtues were not unknown to me, as 
I had made several trips with Jeff who 
was skipper, pilot and engineer, as well 
as guide, philosopher and friend. There 
may have been better boatmen than Jeff 
in that neck of the woods, but taking 
him by and large he sized up favorably 
with others of his calling whom I had 
employed, not excepting the Bahaman 
negro boatmen of Key West, which is 
saying a good deal. 
My destination was not less than fifty 
miles up-stream, and after steaming, or 
rather gasolining, to where the beauti- 
ful river was quite narrow and shallow 
enough for wading, we landed at a 
shady oak grove, our objective point. I 
assembled rod and tackle, drew on rub- 
ber hip boots, shouldered my creel and 
stepped into the cold water. My cast 
was a single brown hackle, which I be- 
gan casting up-stream and down, hither 
and yon, meanwhile keeping within 
sight and earshot of Jeff, who was en- 
gaged in cleaning and oiling his engine. 
The fish were eager and responsive 
and in a fighting mood, and the water 
being so clear, every movement of a 
hooked bass was distinctly seen when 
within a distance of fifty feet. When 
tired of zigzagging beneath the surface, 
and there being no refuge near, his prep- 
arations for an aerial flight were very 
apparent, and as he made a grand rush 
upward and cleft the surface in his mad 
endeavor for freedom, the water seemed 
Contents Copyrighted by Forest and Stream Pub. Co. 
