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[Nov. 2, 
1907. 











At the Old Fish Wharf. 
Editor Forest and Stream: ; 
In a quaint little village on the coast of 
Mount Desert Island there lies an old de 
crepit fish wharf. At low tide it stands like a 
myriad-legged crab, as if on tiptoe to get a 
glimpse of the outside waters, where the 
sturdy fishermen are hauling the trawls 
Of all the soul-satisfying smells that of the 
old wharf comes nearest the ideal. In <he 
huge tanks are hundreds of quintal of cod, 
haddock and tentacled hake, split and flattened. 
On the racks outside are the sounds of these 
unfortunate sea wanderers drying and curing, 
so that civilization may be supplied with a 
delicate and adhesive glue. Old lobster traps, 
rusty anchors and forlorn spars decorate the 
wobbiing planks that form its floor, while 
along the rocks lie derelict dories and pathetic 
skeleton sloops that could tell of many a hum- 
ming gale and many a fine catch of fish. 
It is here the fishermen come with the spoil 
of the sea. One may find, lost among the rot- 


ting coils of an old trawl, beautiful shells 
dragged up and left, strange aliens carried far 
from home 
Here is the huge bivalved scallop, the 
gigantic pecten, with a_ history as strange as 
that of the lost tribes of Israel. Tor this shell 
is found in only two places on the Western 
Hemisphere, I believe; that is. a part of ex- 
treme South America and along the calcare- 
ous bottoms of these chilly shallows Starting 
undoubtedly from some common center, the 
two branches have wandered, carried by the 
currents of the tossing Atlantic. far apart, un- 
til they have each found their homes in simj- 
lar waters, s« parated by thousands of miles of 
sunny seas 
\gain, one picks up a single valve of that 
shell known as the “angel’s wing,” the white 
nun of the waters. She began her life as a 
tiny tapering bivalve, and shuddering at the 
dark shadowy waters peopled with grotesque 
cannibal shark, greedy horny sculpin with their 
staring eyes, barred with silver and gold: 
afraid of the myriad animals with pincers, 
hooks and spines, which would have pounced 
on her or slowly enfolded her with smothering 



grasp, while they bored with barbed tongue 
through her fragile shell, she took refuge in 
the fastnesses of the rocks. Seeking out a 
tiny cave, she slowly moulded it to fit her 
shape. Lying in lazy security, rocked by the 
lapping wave that entered her grotto, or 
dreamily turning round and round in sunlit 
sleep, she hollowed out her nest with the 
blindness of luxury. Grown big by easy life, 
she found herself imprisoned, and then with 
entacles stretched out through the narrowed 
door of her grotto, now become her ISON, 
she gathered what food she might from the 
lotcsam and jetsam-of the ocean But here 
she met her doom, for the pincered prowlers 

crept up like shadows, and with one click of 
their claws bit off her outstretched arms, and 
eft her to die and drift out of her tomb a 
scattered wreck, 
Such are the stories the'old fish wharf tells. 

sut 
are 
the waters underneath its barnacled spiles 
full of active life. Attracted by the debris 
of the fish cleaners are hundreds of starfish. 
There is a purple and green urchin perched 
for all the world like an animated chestnut 
burr on the skull of a huge cod. and slowly 
devouring the glazing eyes of the champion of 
the reef Lurking like a Chinese warrior 
bandit in horny headpiece is the sculpin, col- 
ored like the moss and rock of the bottom 
Low tide, and the on the 
preening their lead-gray plumage or 
lazily in the sky; the sandpipers bobl 
gulls calm flat, 
wheeling 
Ing Over 

the 
Over 
pebbles; the fishhawk wending his way 
the thickets to the quiet lakes in the 
mountain, to change his diet of cod and pol- 
lock for the delicacy of the brook trout and 
landlocked salmon. 
Low tide and silence and sleep. In vain 
you bait with your finest clam, no fish comes 
to your line. No fish is in sieht in that crystal 
water. No fish? Yes, there is one, the scu 
pin. All tides are alike to him, and all baits 
equally acceptable. 
Well, if there is nothing else to do, I will 
play with this occidentalized Chinese junk. 
I throw my bait near him, and he watches it 
drift down to the bottom. His big eyes roll, 
and he evidently smells something. 1 drag the 
bait and he makes a rush, catching the sinker 
in his capacious maw. That doesn’t taste good. 
One hook is bare, and it catches a white clam 
shell and turns it with a flash in the clear water. 

\t once he pounces on this. Again he spits 
and pouts his puffy lips and spreads his bulg- 
ing gills. Next time he bumps his nose against 
the clam; there is a ¢ 
aping mouth and a bait 
gone beyond redemption. Let the line loose, 
and see if he will get off. Not he. He begins 
to inch up the line like a man with a cornsilk 
in his mouthful of succotash. Tf you give him 
time, he intends—if sculpin ever intend any- 
thing—to swallow up all the line and the pole, 
and _ you, too, inch by inch. But you pull him 
in, flopping and puffing out with offended 
Chinese dignity, while his sucking gill covers 
say, “What, what, what a hoax!” 
Low tide and nothing doing; but let the 
waters begin to swirl back, let a foot more of 
that fragrant brine cover the bottom, and as 
from a magic world there drift about your 
line schools of stately founders and animated 
mobs little pollock. So thick do these 
glimmering green and silver midgets come at 
times, that, where the refuse of the sardine 
factory pours into the water, a heaving, flash- 
ing, cone-shaped wave of them are fighting for 
the food, and as fast as the hook is thrown 
across the spray they greedily grab their doom, 
ying joyfully. 
But the flounders are here. 
ittle chap as big as 
h 
of 
First comes a 
a half dollar, trying to 
ide in the shadow of a clam shell. And then 
le advance cuard, by twos, threes, half dozens 
sailing on the bait—with the quick nipping 
bite that feels like a deadened electric thrill. 
\nd after that there js nothing to do but tell 
the cook to have all the pans ready and to 
buy no more fish for a week. 
Low tide, and nothing moving; flood tide, 
and the silent waters are alive with flashing, 
trembling life. White-bellied flounders roll up 
and flop on the old wharf as if by magic. The 
sculpin, with all his ugly mask and false-face 
fearsomeness, seems to be afraid of these side- 
eyed flounders, and only the little pollock can 
snatch the coveted clam from the more stately 
flat fish. , . 
Before you know 

it, all your bait has gone, 
and there is one big flounder you need to make 
your happiness complete. Bait in the Greek 
is dolos, and dolos means deceit also. You 
resort to dolos in its primitive sense. Cut the 
tail off a sculpin. Split it. Work the hook 
through the tough skin with the white side 
out. Throw it skillfully right at the nose of 
the floating flounder below. and he grabs it- 
verily grabs it—and with a jerk you have him 
before he realizes your shameful scheming. 
His loss is your gain. Wet, redolent with 
the smell of the old fish wharf, shoulders 
bending under your catch, you wander home 
with your treasure trove. 
of all is the 
the 
Vou, 
And the pleasantest 
story of the shells and the legends 
old dories and skeleton sloops have told 
THOMAS TRAvis, 

Floating Down an Ozark River. 
Kansas City, Oct. 26.—Editor Forest and 
Stream: When one is weary and worn, in need 
of a rest and recreation, it is well to turn from 
thoughts of business and dwell on those that 
make life worth the living. 
No better panacea can be found than to take 
gun and rod, hie away to the woods and streams, 
listen to the carol of the birds, the gurgle of the | 
waters, read sermons in the rocks and the trees | 
and see happiness in everything; for how can 
one be otherwise than happy himself, if the cares 
and worries are left behind? 
One day in September three of Kansas City’s 
citizens arrived at Galena, Mo., determined to 
forget, for the time being, there ever was any 
other place on earth than that watered by the 
James and White rivers. Each with a boat, a 
guide and everything necessary, they commenced 
the float which lasted from the rth to the 24th 
of September. 
We had with us two 9x9 tents, six folding 
cots, blankets, camp kits, bountiful supplies, 
three camp chairs (not stools). kodak, talking 
machine and plenty of tackle for all emergencies, 
The boats, twenty-four feet long and twenty- 
four inches wide, were occupied by the guide 
with paddle in the stern, a portion of the 
duffle amidships and the fisherman comfortably 
seated on the camp chair in the bow. and no 
three people ever left Galena more comfortably 
than we did. 
There had been rain on some of the tribu- 
taries, and the water was not in fishing con- 
dition the first two days; consequently we had 
time to enjoy the panorama of beauty and 
grandeur, spiced with some danger of an upset. 
Ere two miles had been traversed, we came toa 
swift and narrow bit of water, which, if not 
passed just right. had caused dismay and damp 
garments to many previous voyagers: but good 
fortune favored us, and we floated out to the 
serene water below. We made about nine miles 
during the afternoon, and camped on a gravel 
bar near a spring some two miles across coun- 
try from Galena. Here the Commodore was 
transformed to the Professor, and with his talk- 
ing machine made the woods ring with melody 
and mirth, and caused a storm of “scissor-bills” 
to alight, coming like ducks to decoys. 
We were off before seven the next 
and 

morning, 
at our first cast we hooked a good fish, 
but he gave us the slip. We made little effort to 
catch fish, but floated along dreamily, in both 
perfect ease and blissful enjoyment. Our first 
noon lunch was taken on a gravel bar just above 
the Aurora club house. twenty-one miles from 
Galena. We found our large supply of pro- 
visions taken from Galena entirely unne 
this time of the year, 
tained from farmers alon 
all one needs is a 
sugar, salt, pepper 
and bacon. 
cessary 
as supplies can be ob- 
g the river, and about 
few cooking utensils, coffee, 
and a little corn meal. flour 
Pa] 
a 
That afternoon we passed one of the beauties 
of the James, Virgin Bluffs, which rise from the 
water 800 to 1,000 feet, and where Virgin Shoals 
begin, a two-mile stretch of swift, shallow water. 
“Dad” caught a half dozen fish. and we landed 
at the mouth of Wooly Creek, where we enjoyed 
our first fish supper. after which the Professor 
again entertained with his machine, and to watch 
the natives was much more interesting to us 
than the records. 
Before seven the next morning the battle with 
the fishes began, as the water: was much better. 
Hard indeed was the contest for supremacy. 
Each with the best of tackle. exerted all his 
skill; but when camp for the night was reached, 
we were all satisfied. We passed much beauti- 
ful scenery, saw many long rafts of ties which 
were awaiting higher water to be floated, and 


