
} their sexual communions—to be re- 
counted for the delectation and instruc- 
tion of readers interested in piscatol- 
ogy. The column might be entitled 
“Angling Extraordinaries” (unusual 
things), for truth, however marvellous 
or even preposterous, possesses a charm 
that is sui generis. And truth is peril- 
ous never to the true, angling mythists 
to the contrary nonetheless, for truth 
is often more florid than fish lies, if 
you do not “fish too big.” 
In case you favor the idea, let me 
head the list of contributors with the 
following anecdote, which provokes the 
inquiry: Do fishes experience pain as 
we understand pain? 
When I was a college lad in 1864, I 
was fishing one summer day in a pond 
near Danbury, N. H., with my father 
who was passionately fond of “the 
quiet, innocent recreation of angling,” 
and his friend, Prof. Miron J. Hazel- 
tine, a learned classical scholar with a 
nation-wide reputation as a specialist 
in chess and a writer on chess problems. 
Those were the days before game qual- 
ities in a fish were properly appreciated. 
Perch, bull heads or horned pouts, 
chubs and pickerel were deemed worthy 
of one’s steel because they were edible. 
For as yet our eyes were holden from 
the charms of the sparkid-sided charr 
that was able to zigzag up the rapids 
and leap from his element into the 
scented air to intercept the glancing 
butterfly. Misfortune coetaneous with 
the Civil War had cast Professor Hazel- 
tine’s lot in the quaint New Hampshire 
town, where, after my graduation from 
Columbia, it was my privilege to sit 
with him in his library of rare edi- 
tions and listen to his translations into 
Yankee phrase of Martial’s pithy Epi- 
grams or the blaze of Juvenal’s Satires. 
And we often tramped together over 
the Lesser White Hills and angled in 
the streams. 
On the day in question, the Profes- 
sor hooked a small yellow perch in the 
eye, and in removing the hook pulled 
‘the whole scleroskeletal eyeball out of 
its socket. The enucleated globe of the 
eye was left impaled on the point of the 
hook. After the worthless perch was 
thrown back into the water, minus one 
eye, the captor remarked, “I have often 
) heard it said that a fish’s eye’is an ex- 

cellent bait and here is one ready to 
try.” With that he plumped the outré 
lure into the water and awaited the 
result of his experiment. In a minute 
or two he felt another nibble, struck, 
and pulled up the same little perch that 
had bitten on its own eye. 
Much has been written on the finer 
sensibilities of fishes and one whole 
volume on their lives, but the above ex- 
perience, of which I was a witness, may 
throw some light on their sense of pain. 
Whether it be bodily distress that 
makes a salmon, when he feels the pin 
prick of the artificial fly, cavort so 
madly, or whether it be the sense of 
inhibited motion through the restrain- 
ing line and withy rod, or what to me 
seems reasonable, a feeling of humili- 
ation at being deceived by a make-up 
of sleave-silk and feathers (for fish 
are proud), from my view-point at- 
tained by years of observation and 
study, is a mooted question. 
I expect to have, in vulgar parlance, 
“my eye wiped” for all this, but I am 
happy in the knowledge that it can not 
be “swiped,” as in the case of the afore- 
said perca flavescens, but such as scoff 
will have to prove that my inquiries 
are not, to quote Warwickshire Willie, 
“ciphers to this great accompt.” 
Dr. JOHN D. QUACKENBOS, 
New York City. 
Squirrel Hunting 
DEAR FOREST AND STREAM: 
ELL do I remember my first 
squirrel hunt. I was only four- 
teen years old at the time. After eat- 
ing supper one evening, I took Dad’s 
old single barrel shotgun with a hand- 
ful of Winchester Repeater shells, 
loaded with two and one-half drams, 
one ounce No. 6 shot, and back to the 
woods I went. After waiting some 
time, I happened to look out at the end 
of the woods across the fence in the 
fields, where stood a very large white 
oak tree about four and one-half feet 
across the butt. On the top I saw 
two gray squirrels. 
I started after them as quietly as I 
could and was able to get within shoot- 
ing distance of them, and up I went 
with the old gun. Much to my sur- 
prise down came Mr. Squirrel. Was 
I happy? I should say I was, as this 
was the first squirrel I had ever killed. 
The next fall I had a new gun, a 
double-barrel Hammer model, twelve 
gauge. I was very anxious indeed for 
the 20th of October to come so I could 
try my new gun. After waiting for 
what seemed a very long while, the 
squirrel season came. Back to the 
grounds I went with twenty-five Rem- 
ington New Club shells, loaded with 
three grains black powder, one ounce 
No. 4 shot. 
After I was in the woods a while I 
saw some squirrels and one big fellow 
ran up an oak. Thinking that this 
one would be very easy to get I opened 
up, but missed him with both barrels. 
I loaded again and fired four more 
shells at him and he went on un- 
harmed. 
I saw more and finally stopped two, 
but now had only three shells left. 
When I arrived home, Dad asked me 
what I was shooting at and I said 
squirrels, but I got only two. He said 
it sounded like a machine gun company 
in action. Having a good laugh he 
said, “Boy, I will teach you how to 
hunt squirrels.” 
Dad had not hunted squirrels for 
many years up to this time, but this 
started him up again and he has been 
keeping at it ever since. Dad is now 
68 years old and we have had many 
good days together since my first squir- 
rel hunt in boyhood days. Last Fall, 
November 1924, we had a very good 
time hunting squirrels. We killed forty 
grays—twenty each—which is the limit 
in this state. We both use shot guns. 
Some years back we used .22 caliber 
rifles. But there is some danger when 
using rifles in a closely settled country, 
so we now use the shotguns. I shoot 
a 16 gauge A. H. Fox double barrel 
and a 20 gauge Marlin repeater model 

The limit on squirrels. 
