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In writing to Advertisers mention Forest and Stream. 
climb in a hurry. Before I realized 
what he was doing, Joe fired twice, and 
by the bull’s actions he was just as 
much afraid of us as we were of him. 
He turned like a flash and tore head- 
long into the bush, and by the sounds 
of his progress did not stop till he had 
put a good mile between us. 
WAS glad that Joe had not wounded 
the bull. He will be there for an- 
other hunting season, probably with a 
larger set of antlers, although the pair 
he had this year looked pretty large 
to me as he walked towards us that 
night. 
We returned to our camp and stirred 
up the fire which was almost out. Joe 
crawled back in his blankets, but for a 
long time I sat there watching a won- 
derful display of northern lights. The 
next morning we returned to our main 
camp. It was a perfect October day, 
clear and quite warm. Mike had killed 
a fine moose during our absence, as had 
two other members of our party. The 
following day we broke camp and re- 
turned up Mud River to Bill Bruce’s 
headquarters. My caribou still roams 
the islands of Lake Nipigon. Another 
fall I hope to go back and, with Joe 
as my companion, hunt once again 
through that wonderful game country. 
“About Forty” 
(Continued from page 524) 
brains; no further explanation was 
needed as to why it had taken the 
lure. 
ee last day out saw a stiff breeze 
coming from the East. ‘When the 
fish bite the least” (if there is such a 
time) and very little fishing was done; 
however, fishermen are nothing if they 
are not industriously persistent. I 
honestly admired the tenacity with 
which they stuck to their task and was 
really astonished when I learned their 
plans for the last night. In a last des- 
perate effort to solve the mystery, they 
had concluded the fish must be feed- 
ing at night, and determined to make 
a last try. 
By this time my timidity was gone. 
I had grown quite bold and did not 
hesitate to pick what I thought was 
all kinds of fun at their ideas of fish- 
ing. I frankly admitted I knew noth- 
ing about fishing, and it was frankly 
admitted they knew all about it, but 
on the theory that results count, I 
took the position that you didn’t have 
to know all about fishing to be able 
to catch no fish. 
HIS idea of fishing at night time 
was a new one to me. I had heard 
of spearing fish at night and in my 
boyhood days, had been guilty of the 
unpardonable sin of setting a_ trot 
line across the river for the mongrel 
catfish, but the idea of casting at night 
was too much for me. 
A myriad of stars glistened in the 
sky at nine o’clock as they set off to 
the larger river; while I, tired from 
a long tramp in the woods in the after- 
noon, went to bed. 
I Brent soundly, but awakening in 
the small hours of the morning, found 
the fishermen had not returned. I got 
up, donned my hunting coat, and start- 
ed out to learn what luck was theirs. 
It was a beautiful night, the moon 
hung, a golden crescent in the sky, 
eclipsing the myriads of stars, leaving 
only one here and there, like silent sen- 
tinels in the great blue dome above. 
Across the St. Francis the graceful 
lines of one of the prettiest of the 
many charming Ozark hills, rose like 
a great black sentinel guarding the 
glistening waters that seemed alive 
with hundreds of the finny tribe. 
A S I made my way silently up the 
stream, I heard a muffled swerv- 
ing of a slowly moving paddle. Look- 
ing closely, I saw the erect figure of 
Sperry, his body tense and motionless, 
save for an almost imperceptible move- 
ment of the arms, guiding the boat 
with the skill of Old Powhatan him- 
self. Gray was in the other end of the 
boat. To add to the accuracy of his 
cast, he was kneeling instead of sit- 
ting. With the speed of lightning, the 
line flashed through the night, the white 
feathery lure riding on the moon-beams 
and darting with serpent-like accu- 
racy into each little nick of water 
along the shore. Perhaps I watched 
a dozen casts when suddenly the boat 
itself seemed to turn from its course. 
I heard the buzzing of the reel as a 
few more feet of line were let out for 
safety. Then without a word from 
either man, I watched the fight for lib- 
erty that thrills the heart of every fish- 
erman and makes hours, days, weeks 
spent in the quest seem as naught com- 
pared with the joy of that movement. 
UT, soon the skillful hand of the 
experienced fishermen had worn 
out the sportive bass. Slowly, the reel 
was wound in, a last struggle in mid- 
air, a dripping toil-flaunting defiance 
to mankind and the moon, another skil- 
ful hand with net poised to just ex- 
actly the right angle, and the catch 
was in. How often that had happened 
before I didn’t know. Nor did it seem 
to matter. Not a word was spoken, 
even then. The paddle was again 
taken up by the steady hand of faith- 
ful Sperry. Again his body became 
taut with the thrill of conquest. Again 
the boat swung back along the shore, 
and again the long lash of the whirling 
line whipped the waters. Thrice was 
the scene just described enacted, and 
never in all my years had I felt the 
same commingling of emotions that 
came over me as I stood and watched. 
The things I had dared to scoff at were 
It will identify you. 
