
In the clear 
resting on wet moss some miller’s 
thumbs, which he called ‘‘cock-a-doosh,” 
and which he declared was heap good 
bait for mascalonge. 
We unharnessed our pony and teth- 
ered him to the back of the ve- 
hicle, placed a panakin containing a 
quart of oats under his nose, and hav- 
ing given him a refreshing drink from 
the lake, we left him feeling his oats. 
When we had all finished our lunch- 
eon, we filled and lighted our pipes and 
stepped into the canoe, and under the 
leisurely but powerful strokes of John’s 
paddle, we made good time down the 
lake. At length we reached a likely- 
looking spot of deep, but rapidly shoal- 
ing water, fringed with bullrushes and 
pond lilies, which our guide said was 
much fine place for heap big muskie. 
My friend, having great faith in John, 
the guide, had him bait his hook with 
a “cock-a-doosh,” a small and queer- 
looking cottoid fish. I affixed a some- 
what larger casting spoon to the end 
of my line, and we both, one in each 
end of the canoe, began casting along 
the edge of the weeds. 
Our rods were split-bamboo, a modi- 
fication of the Henshall rod, shorter and 
heavier, 7%4 feet and 8 ounces, and 
styled “Little Giant,” good for any fish 
up to 30 or 40 pounds, and especially 
324 
useful for Florida bay fishes of large 
size. 
My friend had never caught a mas- 
calonge, and this experience was, of 
course, entirely new to him. I saw 
that John was not impressed by my 
casting-spoon as a bait, for he favored 
my friend by maneuvering the canoe 
to enable him to cast toward the likely 
places. And my friend’s faith in John 
and the “cock-a-doosh” was soon re- 
warded by a wicked strike from a good 
fish. I quit casting to watch the fight. 
After the first vicious rush or two of 
the struggling fish, my friend got him 
well in hand, and after a good and 
well-fought battle a mascalonge was 
gaffed and landed by John, who could 
not resist saying: “Heap good ‘cock-a- 
doosh,” heap big muskie.” I judged 
the fish to weigh at least twenty pounds, 
and my friend was happy. 
[ees we resumed casting, and in 
a few minutes my friend had an- 
other strike, and after a gallant and 
more exciting fight, my friend and John 
landed a pike-perch that weighed nine 
pounds on my pocket scale. It is said 
that an Indian never smiles, but John, 
being a half-breed, smiled all over. An- 
other victory for the “cock-a-doosh.” 
Then I began a series of casts with 
the spoon, beginning out in deeper 
OE 
spring-fed waters of Wisconsin’s lakes, game fish fight long and hard. 
water and working up to the weeds, 
after each cast reeling in rather swiftly, 
which caused the brightly burnished 
spoon to gleam and glitter in a most at- 
tractive manner. And then, at last, 
came a mighty tug, followed by a tre- 
mendous straight-away rush that towed 
the canoe along until I turned the 
mighty fish in another direction, and 
then, and then—O, it makes me tired 
again to think of it. : 
UT it must have been a grand fight, 
and a brave struggle, for my friend 
and John sat perfectly still with pro- 
truding eyes as the huge fish made re- 
peated efforts to leap above the water, 
which I prevented by keeping him on 
the surface by main strength and the 
resistance of the faithful rod. At last 
he was in the canoe by the united efforts 
of all the crew, and John seemed best 
pleased of all, and said: “Good pole, 
good spoon, heap big fish.” That night, 
on the scales of the village store he 
weighed forty-five pounds, and the 
other one a little more than twenty. — 
That was the largest mascalonge it 
had been my good fortune to capture, 
thought I had taken several of more 
than thirty pounds in the St. Lawrence 
River and Canada. | 
But there are other and larger fish 
in Wisconsin. Once upon a time # 
I 
