JUNE 9, 1906.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 


Newfoundland Notes. 
“Here’s a shade on the stream where the willows bend 
down, 
Where the waters sleep drowsy and dim, 
And there where the ripples whirl amber and brown, 
The lords of the rivulet swim. 
Then fling the light tackle with delicate cast, 
Let your fly like a cobweb alight; 
A dash and a splash, and the victim’s fast, 
While your reel sings a song of delight.”’ 
THIs is about the season of the year that the 
spring fret becomes epidemic. Lots of anglers 
have it bad, but most of us have to grin and bear 
it. But then, “Hope springs eternal!’ Every dog 
has its day, and yours and mine may be not long 
delayed. The more fortunate fellows, at the first 
symptoms, gather their tackle and hie them to the 
woods and find the cure, “Peace and good health 
and much good fish.” Fortunately, if one has 
the time, he has not far to go for fishing, and 
perhaps fish. Quidi Vidi Lake is almost within 
the precints of the city, and large catches have 
been taken out of it since the season opened. An 
Allan Liner called at the port three weeks ago on 
her way to Canada. She had a large number of 
immigrants aboard for the Northwest. The ship 
was delayed for a couple of days and several of 
the passengers invested in bamboo rods, and 
fished in Quidi Vidi. Some of them had good 
sport, too, and they all appeared to have en- 
joyed it. 
While many anglers go to the lakes near the 
city for fishing, those who seek fish go further 
afield. Within a couple of hours’ run on the 
railway line there are dozens of ponds and rivers 
that afford a full creel for the day’s work. But 
it is not till the salmon and sea trout begin to 
run that the fishing (as is fishing) commences. 
Then royal sport falls to the lot of the lucky 
wight who happens along with his rod and flies. 
I know that there is a salmon saving up for me. 
I can’t locate him now exactly. Perhaps he is 
in the broad Atlantic making shoreward on 
schedule time; perhaps he is in some estuary 
- IN JUNE. 
Photo by Dr. J. Max Muller. 
laying around picking up a bit here and there, 
and moving slowly toward the fresh water. 
Wherever he is I know that he is attending to 
his end; that he’s feeding judiciously, taking 
plenty of exercise and building up brawn and 
muscle for the inevitable conflict. Like the needle 
to pole, he’s steering sure as fate, to the pool 
“where the waters sleep drowsy and dim” and 
“the ripples whirl amber and brown.” And when 
the psychological moment arrives, when the 
spring fret is no longer endurable, I'll gather my 
“rods and reels and traces,’ and with a course 
as unerring as the salmon’s, I’ll speed me over 
hill and dale, cross barrens and marshes, through 
woods and waters, till I come to the brink of the 
pool wherein my salmon waits me, “and the lords 
of the rivulet swims.’ In fancy I have caught 
and killed him a dozen times. Then I “fling the 
light tackle with delicate cast’? and—but why pile 
on the agony. Perhaps I’ll hook a 5 or a Io- 
pound salmon; perhaps I’ll land him or perhaps 
T’ll lose him. I don’t care; we have both fulfilled 
our missions, He has cured me as I have scared 
him—if I love him. If he loses I cure him. We 
both have the sport of it, as we both benefit. If 
he escapes Ill libel him persistently for another 
twelve months. I’ll tell the other fellows that he 
was a 20-pound salmon and thus get twice as 
much pleasure and avoirdupois as if | had caught, 
weighed and exhibited him. 
This is the way always with me. If I can’t go 
fishing when I feel it coming on me, the next 
best thing I know is to unload on somebody else. 
I have been reading trouting items in the local 
papers and they make me feel that I must get re- 
lief somehow. I’ll quote you a few, and try what 
effect ’twill have on other anglers who have it 
bad and whose time is not yet: 
“At Birchy Cove (Bay of Islands, West Coast) 
the rivers and brooks are teeming with trout and 
salmon, Last week a party of three men with 
their rods took forty-eight salmon and 150 dozen 
roles 
“Fifteen dozen fine mud trout were caught on 
Wednesday in Middle Pond by Mr. M. Fizzell, 

who sold them yesterday for fifteen cents a 
dozen.” 
“There is grand fishing now at Terra Nova. 
One angler caught fourteen dozen there a few 
days ago.” 
“Two dozen large rainbow trout, caught in the 
suburban ponds, exhibited in the window of 
Wood’s West End store to-day were real beau- 
tiese? 
“M. Shallow, J. Hunt, S. Quick and H. Craw- 
ford, who had been trouting at Kelligrew’s since 
Saturday last, returned to the city last night. 
They had excellent sport, catching over fifty 
dozen trout between them.” 
And so the story goes. Items like these make 
me uneasy, and make me sigh for the music of the 
running reel, Were 
James M. Hickman. 
CINCINNATI, O., June 3—Editor Forest and 
Stream: James M. Hickman died at the Na- 
tional Soldiers’ Home in Dayton, O., on May 27, 
aged sixty-five years. 
Mr. Hickman was known to the readers of the 
Forest AND STREAM as “Old Hickory,” and was 
the author of many interesting articles. A series 
that attracted a good deal of attention was en- 
titled “Old Temp’s Dream,” which appeared in 
your columns three or four years ago. He or- 
ganized the band of anglers known as the King- 
fishers, about twenty-five years ago, and was the 
club historian, writing accounts of their annual 
trips under the title of “The Camps of the King- 
fishers.” About three years ago he had a stroke 
of paralysis while at the camp in Michigan, and 
he never fully recovered. He had been employed 
at the post office here for nearly thirty-five years. 
He resigned his position about five weeks ago to 
go to the Soldiers’ Home, where he died two 
weeks after being admitted. 
“Old Hickory” was a dear lover of the woods 
and streams. He was a loyal friend and a most 
genial companion in camp. He was an expert 
angler and an authority on the fresh water game 
fish and how to catch them. IDE Mate 1s 
