

FOREST AND STREAM. 
A\ ANINID D RIVE  FISIN \2 

[MarcH 10, 1906. 



The Long and Short of It. 
My friend, Jim L., might truthfully be termed 
an all-around sportsman. As instructor and 
trainer of college athletes he has a national 
reputation. In my estimation he is one of the 
best bait anglers, for trout, in New England. 
But it is as coon hunter that Jim will be longest 
and most favorably known. Many people who 
never knew him as physical instructor nor trout 
angler, are intimate with him as coon hunter, 
and I haven’t the least doubt but what if he 
had put the same amount of money into land 
(and poor land at that) that he has into alleged 
coon dogs he might possess one of the best 
farms in the State to-day. I have enjoyed 
swinging a lantern behind him many a night, 
wading swamps and forcing my way through 
tangles of bull-briers and scrub oaks, listening 
to the musical voices of his Trank and Drive, 
and Ranger and Major, and Fife and Brady, 
and I have been in at the death of many a 
ring-tail, and certainly it is sport. 
But it is not as coon hunter that I wish to 
present him now, but just’ a “simon pure” 
Nutmeg State angler. I suppose it would be 
just as impossible for us to meet (no matter 
how sad or serious the occasion) and yet not 
discuss trout fishing as it would be to live 
without air, consequently we have some very 
animated arguments, but they are entirely free 
from rancor. 
No two anglers adopt exactly the same 
methods, though whipping the same water and 
perhaps using the same lure. This, I believe, 
applies equally to fly or bait fishing, and this 
difference of method and opinion is largely re- 
sponsible for the almost perfect tackle which 
is produced to-day. 
Now I have reached that stage in my angling 
experience where I am willing to sacrifice a 
great deal for personal comfort. I have no use 
for a creel the size of a clothes hamper, and I 
am content with a 9 or 10 foot rod, and I in- 
cline to the fly at all seasons, and no day on 
the brooks, even in April, finds me without 
leader and flies, for I dearly love to bring the 
rascals to the surface, even if they fail to 
strike. Not so Jim. Nothing short of a 20- 
foot rod for him, while bait fishing. “You have 
the tremendous advantage of keeping’ away, 
your movements impart no jar to the banks and 
no vibration to the water, consequently you do 
not disturb the fish, which you are bound to do 
with a short rod,’ he argues. “It’s all well 
enough to talk of your 10-foot, 5-ounce rod, 
but, given the regulation meadow brook, and 
you after trout, why the 20-foot rod and the 
barnyard-hackle are the killing outfit.” 
+ Yes, jim, reply.) elt is alallmosoutht 
in more senses than your plea implies; it kills 
at both ends. It is a back-breaking proposition, 
and its exercise reduces what ought to be a 
pleasant, invigorating outing to downright hard 
work; and even if you get more trout the 
pleasure of the day is dulled at night by severe 
muscular fatigue. Now I rather take a light 
rod and cover the water only where I can use 
a fly, and if my efforts are rewarded with even 
a few trout, I am content. But if I manage to 
raise one good, old, wary brooker, hook him 
and play him for just one fleeting ‘minute and 
then have him rush under the bank and free 
himself, there would be more genuine pleasure 
in that for me, than there would be to hook 
a dozen ordinary trout with a worm and creel 
every one of them. For I have had the satis- 
faction of coaxing a wiley old veteran out of 
his habitual caution, struck him at the right 
instant and felt the blood tingle in my veins 
and every nerve vibrate in response to his 
frantic struggles. And then the enjoyment of 
speculating on what might have happened if 
you had been favored with a little more room. 
For, Jim, the chances are that a baited hook 
une ordinary conditions would not tempt that 
sh.” 
“Pooh!” he says, “you come down to Con- 
necticut with me and take your fly-rod and 
flies, and I will put you on water wherein trout 
are plenty, and good ones, too, and my word 
for it you won’t take a fish.” 
That was the bold assertion which resulted 
in my leaving Worcester one evening the last 
week in June of last year and two hours later 
stepping from the train at Willimantic and 
getting a hearty handshake from Jim, who was 
there to meet me. 
During the three- ee drive to his place, Jim 
opened up the schedule for the morrow, and 
assured me that all details had been attended 
to and that nothing stood between me and a 
good day’s sport, except lack of water. The 
streams were very low, scarcely any water in 
them, in fact. ‘‘However,” he says, “we will 
get some trout.” 
An early breakfast, a generous basket of lunch 
and this parting injunction from Mrs. L., 
“There will be a hot beefsteak dinner served on 
premises at 6:30 P. M.; please do not keep me 
waiting,’ and we were away. Had the morn- 
ing been created expressly to our order, it could 
not have been finer. The grass and every leaf 
hung heavy with a wondrous dew, and across the 
level meadows it looked like a heavy frost. Num- 
berless birds were attending to their morning 
devotions and at intervals Bob White’s wel- 
come call rose clear and sweet above the 
feathered choir. In fact, every animated creat- 
ure seemed to be glad it was alive. I think we 
of the angle partook freely of the inspiration, 
and I expressed my pleasure to Jim that we 
had been vouchsafed such favorable indications. 
And he quietly remarked that it was “a typical 
Connecticut morning.” Then he proceeded to 
enlighten me somewhat on the character of the 
brook we were to fish. According to his 
description it wasn’t much of a stream at that 
time of the year, but consisted of isolated pools 
of dead water, dead in the sense of possessing 
no current; but the water was wholly from 
springs, clear and cold. In the early season 
this stream managed to generate sufficient 
energy to deposit its surplus water into a small 
pond, near which, he informed me, we should 
leave the team. Long before we reached this 
pond I became conscious of a subtle, delicate 
perfume in the air, and I jokingly asked my 
mentor and guide if “we were tackling a typical 
nutmeg smell,” and he complacently replied: 
“Yes, at this season of the year and in this 
vicinity.’ A moment later I exclaimed, “It’s 
pond lilies!” and again the imperturbable 
“Yes.” The nearer the pond we got the 
stronger and more pungent became the odor, 
and I am free to confess I never experienced 
anything like it. The moist, dew-laden air was 
heavy with it, ’twas almost tangible. I could 
fairly taste it, and I expressed my wonder and 
admiration. Jim cautioned me not to exhaust 
my stock of adjectives, for I might reach for a 
few when I saw the pond. And he was right. 
I did reach for them—and found them not. I 
simply gazed, and Jim, fearing I was about to 
throw an ecstatic fit, lightly touched the old 
horse and the danger was partially averted; but 
I was troubled and weak, and Jim solicitously 
remarked, “You need stimulants,’ which he 
reached for and found. 
We pulled up before a farmhouse, Jim 
handed me the reins, alighted, went to the door 
and knocked. His summons was answered by 
a lady in marked contrast to the lilies, and I 
imagined from the way he drew back, the odor 
also. The interview was short and apparently 
satisfactory. Jim’s hand sought his pocket, 
came out, met hers, no shaking. A few minutes 
sufficed to care for the horse, then we pro- 
ceeded to adjust our rods for business. My 
rod needs no special mention, it was just a 
comfortable 9%-foot, 5-ounce weapon. Jim’s? 
Well his was not a rod, it was a rod and a 
quarter, 20 feet in length and weighing nearly 
3% pounds. As he settled together, joint after 
joint, I chaffed him without mercy; but it did 
not jar him in the least, and in a simple, child- 
like way he confided to me that J. Alden Weir, 
the artist, dubbed it the “family tree.” Every-— 
thing in readiness, he tossed me the basket (?), 
saying, “You carry that, it will just balance 
your rod, and we will go down here just above 
the head of the pond first, for there is a pool 
I wish you to drop your flies upon.” I followed 
his lead into the meadow. Arriving at what 
he considered the proper spot, he stepped aside. 
saying, “There is the pool right in front of 
that bunch of willows.” JI looked and saw the 
willows, and to the right of them a clump of 
alders, and lower down more alders, but the 
only indication of a pool meeting my eyes was 
a slight depression between the tall meadow 
grass in front of me and the bunch of willows. 
I said nothing but moved a few steps toward the 
alders on my right, so that I might get more 
of a diagonal cast into the depression, for I 
could see no water, and began to have doubts. 
Making two or three preliminary casts to get 
out the proper length of line, I turned and let 
the brown-hackle and small professor settle 
gently. No response; I tried again, but nothing 
came. 
“Now,” says Jim, “we will step up and take 
a look.” I was surprised. There was a pool 
five feet wide and ten long, and near the bank 
on which we stood was two or three feet of 
water clear as crystal. No water was entering 
the pool and none leaving it. To all appear- 
ances it was a spring hole, yet it was a part of 
the stream. Reeds and grass choked the en- 
trance and exit then, but in the early season it 
was probably well enough defined. 
“I always count this pool good for two or 
three good trout,” says Jim; “but they do not 
seem to be hungry this morning. We will now 
get out on to higher ground, for the next pool 
is quite a bit above.” 
I followed his lead, and we struck a course 
parallel with the water course and some dis- 
tance from it, where the walking was better. In 
a few minutes we turned in again, climbed a 
barbed-wire fence and halted under a big maple 
tree. There my guide delivered himself some- 
what after this fashion: “This, I consider the 
best pool on the brook. Under ordinary con- 
ditions it is good for from seven to ten fine 
trout. If it is raining just right, I get from 
eight to fifteen every visit. You just step down 
and try your short rod and flies.” 
During this discourse I had used my eyes, 
and this is what confronted me: From the 
big maple the bank sloped a few feet, and then 
came black mud and bunches of luxurious 
skunk cabbage for a space of a dozen feet, then 
an almost impenetrable barrier of scrub maples, 
alders and swamp bushes—not a trace of the 
pool could I discover. “James,” I replied, “I 
don’t know just how far it may be to this pool 
you refer to, but, judging from appearances, you 
couldn’t get a fly into water from where I stand 
with a Winchester rifle. I have no ambition to 
distinguish myself in this immediate locality, 
and I am all anxiety to see you exemplify the 
workings of the derrick.” 
He made no comments, but proceeded at once 
to gratify my desires. From his book he 
selected a No. 4 snelled sneck-bend hook. With 
the loop of the snell between his teeth he 
pulled the snell taut with his left hand, and 
then, with the gut between the thumb and fore- 
