
An Old Timer Says 
“When I go fishing, I want to catch some 
real fish—the big, old, wise, boys—who have 
lived longer than other fish because they 
know enough to leave the average run of 
artificial baits alone. But when I toss them 
a Creek Chub Lure, they can’t tell it from 
a real live minnow—and BANG—they sure 
do strike it hard,” 

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Weight 3% oz. 
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Floating Injured 
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Weight 34 oz. 
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Price $1.00 
Famous Pikie 
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produced such frantic efforts to escape, 
and no man ever labored more care- 
fully or played a fish in better spirit. 
With one eminent word of profanity 
I resolved to get that trout if I had 
to swim to the village in pursuit of 
it, some ten miles down the valley. 
The pool was a wreck, despoiled by 
floating grass and brake, and an ever- 
widening expanse of muddy water. A 
stiff line held the fish, and in a rush 
here, a spurt there, the line snagged 
floating plants. It was bedlam in the 
pool. <A peculiarity of the fish re- 
vealed a bottom fighter—no wild 
breaks at the surface, no leaps out of 
water, just a dogged resistance deep 
down. Finally I felt the strength of 
the fish growing weaker, the dashes 
shorter, the vim and electric move- 
ments more feeble, and so began to 
reel in, slow, steady, almost at will. 
The trout came at pressure, all the 
fight nearly gone, and when [I had 
that splendid fish, beaten and unresist- 
ing at my feet, I slipped my fingers 
into the gills and waded ashore. 
“Friend, you have a fish!” I heard 
a voice call, “a beauty—all of it!” 
I looked up to see a brother fisher- 
man coming down an old trail. Pipe 
in mouth, he came rapidly, when I 
noticed his eyes snap in questionable 
merriment. 
“Fall in?” he asked, in a smiling 
attitude. 
“No,” I replied, sagely, “when they 
don’t come out, I go in after them!” 
Holding the trout at arm’s length 
we looked at it, then laying it’ down 
in the fern leaves we looked some 
more. It was a mountain beauty, 
weighing a fraction under a pound and 
a half, worth the mishap and all the 
excitement, a fitting close to a _ per- 
fect morning’s fishing. As we talked 
in fishermen’s confab, smoked and 
told various secrets of the mountain 
streams, I stripped to the raiment of 
the dawnman to wring out and dry 
a mass of wet clothes. Beyond the 
inquisitiveness of mosquitoes and a 
few exploring black flies and midges, 
I succeeded in presenting a better ap- 
pearance, a little moist and bedraggled, 
but still passable down the wood trail. 
“It is a good thing I am fishing up- 
stream,” remarked the stranger, with 
a weather eye upon the muddy water 
as he turned to go. 
I nodded in assent, and waved a 
friendly hand to him as he stepped 
from sight in the undergrowth. 
Overhead the sun shone hot and 
golden, but down on the trail a cool- 
ness enveloped everything as I slowly 
walked along and noted the beauty of 
the woodlands. Young ruffed grouse 
strayed on the trail, wallowing in sandy 
patches like chickens.. Birds fluttered 
from dark boughs, but they were silent 
It will identify you. 
of voice and seemed busy in constant 
feeding. A tranced calm held the 
woods, a stillness where the rustle of 
leaves or flutter of velvet wings was 
loud in the silence. 
Smoking, thinking, happy in the 
adventure and success of a morning’s 
fishing, I thought of nothing but the 
last fish. Memory produced smiles, 
silent laughter. In the weight of the 
creel I knew it to be a red-letter day— 
a day in which history was made, for 
in the years to come how one could 
look back and dream. Days may pass 
and be forgotten. Such memories as 
these are deathless. 
Salmon Fishing with Fast- 
Moving Flies 
(Continued from page 455) 
good-sized fish, landed one, cut the 
other, and played the third till he car- 
ried the leader through a loop of steel 
barrel-hoop buried in the bottom. So 
at nine o’clock we had but one salmon. 
As I waded ashore the moon rose from 
behind the forest lower down. 
The size of flies used had been No. 
4 and 6. The rod was a special grilse 
model with a heavy leader spliced to a 
trout leader of Spanish gut breaking 
at about 2% pounds. There were over 
two hundred yards of line and backing. 
Mention has been made of my interest 
in 5/0 single flies. It so happened that 
the previous season a fishing friend 
had presented me with a number of 
Cascapedia models.- One of these flies - 
had a grey and silver body and a long 
trailing white and yellow feather. It 
was the sort of fly any fisherman 
might carry for years and never use, 
but carry faithfully just the same. 
Hardly had this fly swung out over 
the very water which had been fished 
for two hours than a fish rose and 
took out over one-hundred yards of 
line. Six times this salmon came out 
of water and it was very much as if 
some one from the cliff above had in 
the moonlight dropped a puncheon in 
the bosom of the pool. It was difficult 
to gaff this fish without a light, but in 
short order we had him ashore, a large 
fish. I now insisted that my boatman 
try his luck, and I will always remem- 
ber as I sat crouched by the fire on the 
beach and watched him cast that I 
could see only the silver of his hair 
and the glint of the silver ferrules in 
the night. Almost at once he was into 
a good fish. Again I took the rod, and 
at twenty minutes to eleven we started 
to pole up to camp with four salmon, 
three of which we had hooked with the 
large fly in the moonlight, three of 
them being very heavy fish. 
Page 490 
