Chapter IV: Part 4

Well, this morning of which I am now writing, was one to make glad the heart of an angler. A southwest wind blew softly, and the sun was obscured by warm gray clouds. No fish of any decency or self-respect could _help_ biting on such a day! I felt so sure of good luck that I put overboard a wicker-work basket, with a hole in the lid, so arranged, with a falling spring door, that fish could be put in but could not get out. This floated astern and would keep fully a hundred pounds of fish alive, if necessary, for any length of time. Having fixed everything to my liking, I stood up and made my first cast along the edge of the reef. No result! but I thought I saw a faint suspicion of a shadowy form or two, and a slight movement of the water just behind my flies. Have been too quick, I thought; and so tried again, letting the flies this time rest until they sank an inch or so below the surface, when I _attempted_ to draw them slowly in. I say attempted, because they had not moved six inches when first the dropper and then the tail fly were taken in a rush, by two large trout which didn’t draw towards me worth a cent, for some fifteen minutes at least. On the contrary they darted away as if the Old Hick was after them with a red-hot frying-pan; pulling in unison like a pair of well-broken colts and severely trying my rather too light tackle. Any decided check was out of the question. I could only put on such pressure as the single gut leader would bear, and that was sufficient to make a half-circle of my rod. I had beautiful open water in which to play the fish, but as they rushed along and down the face of the submerged cliff, I did not know what hidden dangers might lurk in the unseen depths, nor at what moment a sharp, jagged rock might cut the line, or some profound recess furnish a retreat from whence it might be impossible to withdraw my prize. So far however, all went well. The fish in their terror had sought deep water and not touched rock at all. Soon the distraction of the heavy, ceaseless strain caused them to forget the glorious maxim that, “in union is strength.” and they began to pull different ways. Now I was sure of them! and very gradually and gently, inch by inch, I coaxed them away from the dangerous ground, and got them safely above the smooth bottom of the plateau on the farther side of the boat, where I could see their every motion and watch their brave struggles for life. A prettier sight I never witnessed than the curious way in which the movements of one fish neutralized those of the other. If one sought the bottom, his mate went for the surface; if one rushed away seawards, the other came towards the boat. They literally _played each other_, and I was for awhile a mere spectator! After looking upon these cross-purposes for some minutes, I noticed that the fish on the tail fly became entangled with the line above his comrade on the dropper, and both then began to whirl furiously round and round after the usual manner of trout in a like predicament. When the wildest of this flurry was over, I drew them cautiously to the boat and dipped up both at once with my landing net. An immediate application of my pocket scale proved their weight to be twenty-nine and thirty-three ounces respectively, the heaviest trout being that on the drop or upper fly. They were evidently a mated pair, and both were broad-shouldered, deep fish, but not very long, the largest being only sixteen and a half inches. Their backs were beautifully clouded and mottled, but the carmine spots on their sides were not quite so vivid as those of dark river-water trout. Fortunately they were merely lip-hooked, and being at once placed in the floating creel, soon revived. Now I began to feel big, and thought myself quite an expert, but in less than five minutes the conceit was taken out of me with a vengeance, for on my very next cast I struck a magnificent fish and lost him, and half my leader, instanter. On feeling the hook old _Salmo_ went like a shot over the brow of the declivity and (I suppose) into a hole, and cut the line short off. After that mishap I became more careful, and never dropped my fly more than six inches from the edge of the reef; and whenever a fish was struck I drew him at once, at all hazards, away from the risky ground and played him on the plateau.

By ten o’clock I had secured fifteen beauties, some running close upon three pounds. Eleven of these were as lively as ever, but four had been hooked in the throat and soon died.

As the day was now becoming bright and hot, I thought it time to look after my boys, who were out of sight around a point. I soon came up with them and found “Squills” asleep in the bottom of the boat while “Bluffy” sat smoking, with his rod lying idly across the gunnel with the line in the water. “What luck, boys?” I shouted. “Squills” awoke and replied, “What luck yourself, Governor? Not one blessed fish in this region.” I settled on my sculls, ready for a quick start, and said, “Why, Squills, you don’t know _how_ to fish. Just compound a few of your best prescriptions and throw them overboard. They have generally proved fatal to your patients, and will murder the fish sure.”

“Squills” made a wicked dab at my head with his long-handled net, but a stroke put me in safety, and I added, “And you, friend ‘Bluffy,’ just rehash that famous trespass-case speech of yours, which gave the judge fits and nearly killed the jury, and if you don’t have lots of dead fish, I’m a Dutchman.” The poor boys, however, were past joking; and I rowed back and examined their ground. They had actually been fishing all the morning in water nine feet deep; over a bottom smooth as a billiard table, without a weed, rock or stone to hide them from the fish; all of which, within a hundred yards, could plainly see them and their boat. So I said, “Come boys, we’ll go to camp and have an early trout dinner, and in the evening you shall catch fish to your heart’s content.” Then up, after this manner, spoke the dolorous “Squills”.

“That is all right, Governor, but it strikes me that in order fully to enjoy a trout-dinner, it is, above all things, necessary first to have the trout.”

“True, most sapient medicus, and here they are,” I rejoined, at the same time lifting the lid of my creel. “Glory to Galen!”

“Thunder and turf!”

“Ghost of Walton! where did you get those, Governor?” both exclaimed in a breath. “Boys,” said I, “you are hungry, tired, and cross; possess your souls in patience; come to camp; take some lime-juice and water, with a little of something in it; eat, drink, and recover your strength, and you shall have the best afternoon’s sport you ever saw.” These words of wisdom cheered the fellows up wonderfully, and we all put off for camp.

That redolent and shiny youth, Jim, soon cleaned two of the dead fish, together about five pounds, cooked them in a style of his own, and we sat down at the unfashionable hour of eleven to our first camp dinner. I will, for once, give the _menu_, merely to show what awful _hardships_ we had to encounter!

Brook trout, fried in red-hot lard, garnished with bread crumbs; broiled mutton chops; baked potatoes; cold tongue; pickles; sauces and jellies: aftercourse—pancakes with maple syrup; wind up—Stilton cheese. Didn’t we just suffer for our country? After the inevitable and welcome pipe (not cigars), and some choice and (I am happy to say) _chaste_ anecdotes by “Bluffy,” we laid down for a two hours’ siesta. Oh, the glory, the happiness of out-door life, away from posts, telegraphs, or newspapers! Oh, the delight of feeling that every fresh breath of pure ozone-laden air, adds to health and wholesome animal spirits, and is rapidly re-invigorating your system, and fitting you to more effectually take part in renewed and honest work!

At four o’clock the sun was again obscured by kindly clouds and we all went out to the reef; the boys, as before, in one boat, and I in the other. And then occurred sport such as is seldom seen in genuine troutfishing. My friends stuck to their minnow and grasshopper bait, while I retained the fly. I induced them to anchor quite close to the edge of the reef, so that they might, if necessary, drop their lines perpendicularly down its face. They had not fished five minutes when “Bluffy” gave a whoop, which might have awakened a petit-juror or scared a witness out of his boots. I glanced that way, and found the man of law standing up in the boat with curved and straining rod and a glow of intense satisfaction pervading his jolly countenance. “I’ve got him, Governor! He’s a whopper; an old he fellow! None of your three pounders,” he yelled in great excitement. Sure enough, he _had_ him, and after ten minutes of skilful play, landed a trout of over four pounds.

This beat me all hollow! Indeed the largest _S. fontinalis_ I took on this trip weighed three pounds, one ounce, being two ounces lighter than the heaviest I have ever yet caught.

“Squills” now got his hand in and brought out a dashing fish of three and a-half pounds, in a manner so pretty and artistic as to elicit a warm eulogium from the “Governor,” who, of course, had not meantime been idle himself. In fact, I had taken a double and single while the boys got their two; but these outweighed my three. All through our excursion the _largest_ fish were invariably taken by bait, but not so many of them as by the fly. However, the fly was so much less trouble and so much prettier, and cleaner to handle, I did not care to change, seeing at once that we should catch more fish than we wanted anyway.

It was a great treat to me to watch the enjoyment the boys had in their sport. Neither of them had been out before for years, and no student at the beginning of a long vacation could have manifested such unbounded delight at his freedom, as did they with their fishing and its accompanying pleasures. It is a fact worthy of note that while I, using the fly, took only speckled trout (_S. fontinalis_), my friends, with bait, secured several of other and larger kinds.

Well, amid laughter, joke and repartee, the afternoon wore away, and evening shades came all too quickly.

Our sport had been almost unique in its exhilarating success and joyousness. When the sun sank below the waters we had taken in all seventy-six fine trout, none under one pound. Of this number my fly was responsible for thirty-two, “Squills” had taken twenty-one, and “Bluffy” twenty-three. A lovelier lot of fish was never seen; and with the exception of eight dead ones, we transferred them all safely to the corral, built in the edge of the lake near our tent, with large stones. Here, about eighty per cent, of all the fish taken on this trip remained alive during the whole time of our stay. Whenever one showed signs of failing we dipped him out for present use. This corral, hacked up by our supply of ice, gave us full assurances that our good luck would not be followed by reckless waste.

But I had almost forgotten the chief incident of this memorable day. As we approached the camp we saw “Jim” on the shore dancing a double “Virginny break-down” and grinning all over from head to foot; his shining ebony face and gleaming teeth fairly illuminating the coming darkness. On seeing us he yelled out, “I got him, gentlemen; I beats you all; takes this nigger to catch fish!”

The imp had actually made for himself a raft of drift-wood, paddled it out to deep water, and taken with bait a great salmon trout of twenty pounds! and it was now swimming about in the corral like a very leviathan among my morning’s catch. This tickled us all so immensely that we then and there bestowed upon “Jim” an extra “quarter” each. This boy was indeed a treasure; a first-class cook and care-taker; willing, faithful, and honest; while his store of songs, exhibits of dancing, and never-failing fun and good-humor, would have sufficed to keep cheerful any camp in the world. Poor fellow! he was drowned two years later in Lake Michigan, while bathing.

If I did not fear to spin out this already dull narrative to an inordinate length, I should like to give a detailed account of each of the twelve days we fished and shot in this vicinity.

_Twelve_ days only, mind you, for not a line was wet on Sunday.

Our one rifle proved a useful adjunct, but we found no use for the shot-guns, the season being too early and the weather too fine for ducks. The delicately sighted Winchester, however, procured us several fine specimens of the loon or great northern diver, and one or two large blue cranes, all of which, I presume, now adorn “Squills’” sanctum in British Columbia.

Almost every day we had choice sport, and we limited our catch only by the facilities we possessed for saving and carrying away the fish.

One particular day we devoted to salmon and red trout, which we fished for away off in very deep water, all of us using either spoons or live herring bait, in trolling. We had plenty of wholesome exercise in rowing, and very fair luck as regards fish; taking in all, seven salmon trout and five red trout.

The honors of this day fell to “Squills,” who captured with his spoon a salmon trout of nineteen pounds, while I got a red trout of ten pounds. This last named fish is as pink in the flesh and as fine flavored as _Salmo salar_. It is said by local fishermen to be in fact the same fish, and they suppose that in ages long past sea salmon had some means of reaching this lake, and when the waters subsided some were left, and that from them the red trout is descended. As I have myself no scientific knowledge whatever I cannot offer an opinion upon this point. I can only say that if a skilled fisherman, or even a scientist, were to receive one of these fish from, say Quebec, he could hardly distinguish it from the veritable _Salmo salar_, though it bears even a more exact resemblance to the salmon of Frazer Fiver, British Columbia.

I am told that this red trout will rise to the fly, but I cannot vouch for the fact, as all we took were captured with bait or spoon.

A rather curious, though frequently occurring, thing happened one evening as we were all fishing, with our boats not more than fifty feet apart. I had hooked, and was playing a medium sized speckled trout, when it was seized and gorged by a sixteen-pound salmon trout. I realized the situation instantly and gave line freely, so as to allow the poacher lots of time to swallow his stolen prey. The rifle was in the other boat, and I asked the boys to come alongside, as we should probably have to use cold lead, the fish being too large for our landing nets. By the time they were in position, about sixty feet of my line had gone slowly out, and I judged that the large fish had got the small one fairly in his stomach. I then began to reel in very gently, and was surprised to find that the big trout followed my lead with great docility until I had brought him quite near the surface. Then he became alarmed and dashed off—a proceeding to which I made no resistance, as I feared pulling the bait from his throat. Being apparently satisfied that all was right, my unknown friend soon became quiescent, and I could only feel a slight tremor of the line as he settled his supper satisfactorily in his maw. Again I coaxed him slowly and cautiously towards the boat in which stood “Bluffy” with poised rifle. This time I ventured to make him show himself within twenty feet of the muzzle of the gun, when “Bluffy” very neatly put a bullet through his head, and he turned belly up and was got on board. “Well done, “Bluffy,”” said “Squills;” “your _practice_ could not have done greater _execution_ if you had been making out a bill of costs for a client.”

“Well, no,” says ‘Bluffy;’ “but I think perhaps one of _your curative pills_ would have killed the fish more unutterably dead.”

“Peace, boys, peace,” said the “Governor”; “this is a solemn occasion; we have used unlawful and unsportsmanlike means to take a game fish; but as it could not be helped we will condone the offence by giving the fish away to the first deserving object we meet.”

“And that will be ‘Jim,’ quietly observed ‘Squills.’”

But dear me! what is the use of trying to tell all the fun and glorious sport we had? The pen of a “Frank Forester” or a Hallock might do justice to the subject, mine cannot. Suffice it to say that, as the days went on, each one made me feel younger and younger, until I found it hard to convince myself that I was over twenty-five. As to my comrades, we had not been out a week before they were boys of sixteen!

Last days will come, however, and all too quickly, let us bear up never so bravely. The fifteenth morning saw us packing up and preparing to return once more to civilized life and “the busy haunts of men.”

I am afraid to say how many trout we had at the finish, but I know that we packed in ice more than three hundred pounds weight to take home with us; and gave away, almost alive from the corral, nearly as many more to the captain of the steamer, thereby calling down upon our heads the earnest blessings of passengers and crew.

I find, on looking over this MS. that I have forgotten to say that we discovered several places along the channel edge of the island where most excellent trout-fishing could be had from the shore; and that, by the advice of local fishermen, my friends tried the “hearts” of killed trout as bait, and found such very effective. This “heart” is a piece of flesh which lies inside the pointed part of the fish’s belly which runs between the gill covers. It looks much like a genuine heart, and _pulsates_ for several seconds after being removed from the fish. I suppose that it is in fact a real heart. Never once did this bait fail to attract a bite; but, of course, not many hearts could be obtained, as we extracted the delicate morsel only from such fish as were required for immediate consumption.

Me finally bade farewell to our two weeks’ elysium, with sorrowful feelings, but before the lapse of twenty-four hours, kind and loving thoughts of wives, little ones, and home re-asserted themselves, and we landed at Collingwood in jubilant spirits and vigorous health, fully prepared to resume our several avocations, and fight again the battles of life with renewed courage and hope.

P.S.—We were absent from Barrie twenty-five days in all, and the whole trip cost us only one hundred and thirty-five dollars, or forty-five dollars each. Our ice was kept almost intact by being wrapped in blankets and covered with spruce boughs. Mr. Boon, before referred to, has built and is this winter (1883) filling a large ice-house on the small island for his own use and that of any visitors who may fish in the neighborhood next summer. Mr. Boon took five hundred half barrels of choice fish on these grounds last season; with nets, of course.

THE ANGLER’S GREETING.

By W. David Tomlin.

Whither away, friend! Your black slender rod-box and the creel denote you are on fishing intent, but where are you bound?

A momentary glance, a cordial good evening; the question then came—To whom am I indebted for this greeting? An exchange of cards resulted in a long and cordial grasp of hands; glad to meet you! Is it possible? The magic pasteboard revealed two names not unknown to each other through the columns of their favorite angling journal, and this visitor had come to the little country station in quest of some of the fishing often spoken of in the said paper.

The fates had led the correspondent to the railway station to bid good-bye to a friend when the angler unlimbered himself therefrom; and was looking around as strangers do.

“Can you recommend a quiet inn near this point where I can find decent treatment? I am not inclined to be fussy.”

A few minutes’ walk and I introduced him to mine host, who was a genuine piscator, and nothing pleased him better than to have an angler under his roof: he took possession of him and considered nothing too much trouble, so long as he gave his guests good fishing, clean beds, a square meal, and satisfaction.

While supper was being prepared, we pleasantly chatted over the prospect of sport, and the angler’s aim and ambition. He wanted a day or two of trouting, and some roach fishing with a fly, as he had read some letters giving an experience in fishing for these dainty fish, and intended trying them. The inspection of a well-filled fly-book showed how carefully he had selected his stock.

The early supper over, we strolled up the hillsides overlooking this lovely vale. On the grassy downs we seated ourselves, and I pointed out to him the various fishing points; yonder is a splendid reach where the trout are always found; see that sheeny rivulet coming down through that clump of trees! that is the best trout stream in this section of country.

Note the different water-courses. The canal runs through the middle of the valley; see here, clear away to the west, a little brook comes tumbling in; see just below that point, a silvery-looking stream on the farther side of the canal—that is a fine trout stream; follow its course until it loses itself in that big clump of willows: a saw-mill is hidden in those willows, and the stream, after supplying the mill with power, drops into a culvert under the bed of the canal; there it is again in that piece of open moorland; there it is coming out from that long clump of willows, and finally joining the stream mentioned before as the best trout stream in this region; thus the two streams, the Gade and the little Bourne, are swallowed up in the canal; and have always been splendid waters for roach fishing.

The hills hide the canal and streams in their winding course, or I would point out to you the best fishing grounds for miles along this Hertfordshire valley; but I presume there lies under your observation enough fishing ground for a day or two.

The sun is tending downward like a huge ball of fire, the vale is in a dreamy shade; how glistening the appearance of the water-courses, like a big silvery thread winding in and out along the vale! the evening air is full of music; the bee is humming around you; what a flood of music comes from the throat of that woodland thrush in yonder thorn hedge! the strain is taken up, and the very woods echo again with the song of the black-bird. As he ceases his roundelay, the soft clear note of another bird strikes on the ear; for the moment’ nature seems hushed; almost breathless you wait; the notes come rich and clear, as silvery as a lute, a flood of melody; the sound dies away and instantly the woods ring again; all the sweet-throated songsters seem as if applauding the song of the nightingale; we sit and drink in these sounds, until one by one the songs drop into silence, leaving the nightingale to pour out its tuneful music until far into the night. At this moment there comes in the air the quivering boom of a bell ringing out the hour of nine from the steeple of the church yonder, faintly limned on the evening shadows. Ah! listen again! there comes the evening chime. How the quivering notes pulsate up here on these-hilltops! how silvery the tones; as the chords of the vesper hymn rings out sweet and clear, our hearts beat in rhythm to the strain! Lovely vale! Israel’s grandest seer, who with eye undimmed and natural force unabated, even from Pisgah’s lofty heights gazed on no lovelier scene than this we have surveyed. We descend into the shadows; promising to meet my angling friend some time during the following day, I wend my way homeward and to rest.

The evening shadows were again falling ere I could join our angler, but the flies were on the waters and roach were fairly jumping, the surface of the stream was alive with fish, both roach and dace breaking water around us. My friend was no novice; I found him whipping the stream from bank to bank, and his creel testified to his success. He was using a tail fly and dropper, a red hackle for the former, and an imitation of the common blue house-fly for the dropper. These fish are fastidious in their tastes; they do not rise at flies like a trout, but come to the surface of the water and just break for the fly and at once turn tail up. He who fishes for them must have a quick eye and steady hand; then he can kill readily enough. They are a toothsome fish, but a trifle bony. Eye and hand must work together, and when fish are feeding they will readily take the fly. They are tender in the mouth and require care in handling. They afford good sport in streams where they are abundant, and are often killed weighing from one and a-half to two pounds.

My angling friend had come well prepared with letters introducing him to the owners of the fine trout streams, and readily obtained permission to fish these preserved waters. It was rare sport to watch him daintily lay out his line across the stream, his stretcher a June fly, or at times a floating May-fly skittered across the surface until close to the farther hank. Here lay a big _Salmo fario_. We had been watching him lazily coming to the surface to suck in a fly or bug that had tumbled from the trees overhead. A big cockchafer came spinning and buzzing down stream. All laziness gone in an instant, up came the _Salmo_ showing his huge sides. A fierce lunge and a heavy splash and the chafer was gone into the cavern of the open mouth. The fly-book was out in an instant. A dark brown fly somewhat resembling the ‘chafer replaced the stretcher. A careful cast a little up stream, a lunge and a miss from the trout. Another cast close in to the bank, a slight jerk and the fly assumed the appearance of the buzzing chafer; the same sharp dash, the hand was as quick as the trout this time, the hook was driven home and the fun began. Such a dashing, splurging, rushing I had never seen. He was determined to use every art known to trout-lore before he surrendered. The rod bent and sprung, the line fairly swished as he tore up stream; above him lay the limb of a tree, scraggy and ragged; toward this he plunged, but the line tightened on him; he tugged and jerked, but gained not an inch; he came to the surface and thrashed the water with his broad tail. Fatal error! as he did so the line came in as fast as fingers could fly round, the landing net was slipped under him, a quick upward movement and Master _Salmo_ was flung high and dry. He was too big for the net and so was ignominiously flung ashore.

What a noble trout! His silver sides and belly gleamed in the light, his blood-red spots seemed to glow with indignation at his cruel death. He had long been a lordling over the other trout and now was strangling! Kill him! I cannot bear to see a trout gasping. Killed and scaled he weighs three and a half pounds. A credit to the angler: but at times, during the contest, it was a question to which the honor belonged; it was: “Splendid rod!” “Ah! how skilfully he handles his fish.” “Who would have dreamt that little thing would have stood such a strain?”

Gentle angler, let us leave our friend to the contemplation of the beauties of the fairest of all England’s garden landscapes, and the preserved trout streams, and plunge with me into an American forest.

By a beautiful lake in the famous State of Michigan a little settlement is springing up. Over in that bay is a trout creek emptying; it is full of trout—trout _galore_—trout by the hundreds can be seen. Come with me, I will show them to you. Let me drop a fly into this hole. Ah! there he is! see him dash for it. He won’t come again, let us push along.

Push along, you say? do you expect I am coming through that brush? Not much; I am not a crank. If you are so fond of trying to break your neck for a string of trout, why go. I go! am quite willing to be alone on this lovely little creek, for it contains some of the handsomest trout it has ever been my good luck to kill. Here and there I drop in a fly; sometimes a “Yellow May,” sometimes a “Professor,” sometimes a “Stone-fly”; once in a while an “Ibis” is fancied by some fastidious trout. How and then a “Floating May-fly” seems a favorite. Where the brush overhangs and is a darksome, lonely spot, I drop in a “Royal Coachman,” and out comes a big trout lusty and fighting; sometimes fancy flies are spurned and hackles of all colors kill; then a fly composed of alternate feathers, red and white, of no name, but a favorite with the writer, will kill when trout will not take any other fly.

I am enjoying the fun, and the creel is getting heavy. Half a mile of fishing and twenty-five handsome trout is doing good enough for mid-day fishing.

As the evening falls I take my split bamboo and the fly-book, pull on the wading hoots, and go down to the mouth of the creek, wading out until I am as far as the sand runs. I cast out more for practice than to expect trout. I have on a big bass-fly large enough for a salmon-fly. As it strikes the water twenty-five feet from me there is a commotion. “Ye gods and little fishes!” What was the fuss? I cast again, and as true as I am here if a number of trout did not jump clear out for that fly, big as it was! Hastily reeling in I put on a dun-colored fly, and cast again; the same jump and dash, but no trout. Changing my flies until at last I put on as a stretcher a “White Miller,” I flung out clear beyond any former cast into the midst of what appeared like a boiling spring. The fly dropped softly and out came a host of trout. School kept just then, for I certainly had struck a school of trout. Striking, I fastened into a fine fish; reeling in, I dried my fly and cast again and hooked again. The fun grew fast and furious; my little bamboo swished and bent; hooks were snipped off; I was excited and jubilant, when along came an itinerant parson. The twenty-five or thirty trout I had, set him longing; he must fish. Jerking off his boots, pulling up his pants, he waded into the icy cold water equipped with a stick cut from the forest. He had nosed out a line and some hooks from a supply I had left on the bank in my fishing-case, and without so much as “by your leave” began threshing the water as close to the school as he could get his line; this was baited with a piece of dead fish. To say that I was disgusted faintly expresses my feeling. I would have ceased fishing, but my friend with whom I was staying said, “Ho, don’t stop while sport is so good.” I put on a “Royal Coachman” and cast out again, hooking and bringing out trout every second or third cast. I began casting wide, the school followed my flies. I tried the “Professor’s,” “Dun’s,” “Hackle’s,” “Seth Green,” “Governor,” and “May-flies,” with good success. With one pure “Yellow May” I caught a dozen handsome trout, but in this event the evening shadows were fast falling. As they deepened, the “Royal Coachman” and “White Millers” were the killing flies. I cast until I could not see where my flies fell, and even then once in a while hooked and brought in a trout.

I had been thoughtless enough to leave my creel up in the house, never expecting to have this run of good luck. All my trout were taken from the hook and thrown twenty-five feet to shore. I lost many of them in this way. Thirty my friends claimed, yet when I came to count tails, I found forty as handsome trout as ever man wished to see, and all caught from 6 in the evening until dark, about 7.45. I had no net, no creel, therefore had to lead my trout into my hand. The friend at whose house I was staying claims I lost more than I caught by having them flounder off the hook while trying to take them by the gills, and by flinging them ashore.

I have used flies on this creek many times, but never had such luck before nor since. My experience has been that the fine fancy flies of the eastern streams are useless on these Michigan streams; the nearer the flies approach to a species of small moth found flitting amidst the foliage of the forest, the greater the success. A word, brother angler, and I have done. Learn to cast a fly, and you will never go back to bait fishing from choice. Get good flies, and you won’t regret the extra money they cost you; don’t buy cheap imitations or trade made flies—“they are frauds.”

Don’t buy a pole big enough for the staff of a Philistine Goliath; to fish for trout, buy a fine rod, take care of it, learn to use it thoroughly. Never buy a cheap rod; a rod fit for trouting must be as fine as it is possible to make them, and it should not make a shadow on the water. Cheap rods are like cheap guns, scham-dahms! Good trout rods cost a good deal of time and labor; cheap rods are turned out in a rapid-running lathe. They are a delusion. Get the best materials of everything you need, and buy of a good maker. Never be tempted to buy “cheap flies because they are bargains”—cheap rods because some one is selling out; “want to get out of the business, no money in it.” Remember you are the party who will be sold. Cheap things for trouting are a “fraud, a delusion, and a snare.”

Almost every angler has been bitten, but the prevailing opinion is: buy the best tackle your pocket-book can afford and take care of it. And my word for it, as an angler who learned to cast a line for pickerel at ten years old, you will love the sport and think it the best way to spend a summer’s vacation of any amusement under the sun.

“In using the fly the object is to imitate the movements of the natural insect as nearly as possible. To drop the line naturally on the water, and then to keep the fly endued with life, is the stratagem. From the moment the fly touches the water the angler should keep his eye on it. Trout often feed a little under the surface; they do not always break when they rise, but quietly suck in the fly.”—_Charles Hallock_.

“‘An angler, sir, uses the finest tackle, and catches his fish scientifically—trout, for instance—with the artificial fly, and he is mostly a quiet, well-behaved gentleman. A fisherman, sir, uses any kind of ‘ooks and lines, and catches them any way; so he gets them it’s all one to ’im, and he is generally a noisy fellah, sir, something like a gunner.’”—_Doctor Bethune._

16. Silver Black.

17. Scarlet Ibis.

18. Stone Fly.

19. White Miller.

20. Fiery Brown.

21. Yellow Drake.

22. Grir. King.

23. Imbrie.

24. Soldier Palmer.

25. Cha

26. Portland.

27. Ethel May.

28. Pale Evening Dun.

29. Great Dun.

30. Whimbrel.

“Be stil moving your fly upon the water, or casting it into the water; you yourself, being also alwaies moving down the stream.—_Izaak Walton._

“When once alarmed, trout will never bite.”—_Seth Green_.

“Fly-fishers are usually brain-workers in society. Along the banks of purling streams, beneath the shadows of umbrageous trees, or in the secluded nooks of charming lakes, they have ever been found, drinking deep of the invigorating forces of nature—giving rest and tone to over-taxed brains and wearied nerves—while gracefully wielding the supple rod, the invisible leader, and the fairy-like fly.”—_James A. Henshall, M.D._

“It is generally true that if a trout is pricked by a fly-hook he will not rise to it again.”—_W. C. Prime_.

“Christopher North.—Would you believe it, my dear Shepherd, that my piscatory passions are almost dead within me; and I like now to saunter along the banks and braes, eyeing the younkers angling, or to lay me down on some sunny spot, and with my face up to heaven, watch the slow changing clouds!”

“Shepherd.—I’ll no believe that, sir, till I see’t—and scarcely then—for a bluidier-minded fisher nor Christopher North never threw a hackle. Your creel fu’—your shootin’-bag fu’—your jacket-pouches fu’, the pouches o’ your verra breeks fu’—half-a-dozen wee anes in your waistcoat, no’ to forget them in the croon o’ your hat,—and, last o’ a’, when there’s nae place to stow awa ony mair o’ them, a willow-wand drawn through the gills of some great big anes, like them ither folk would grup wi’ the worm or the mennon—buta’ gruppit wi’ the flee—Phin’s delight, as you ca’t,—a killen inseck—and on gut that’s no easily broken—witness yon four pounder aneath Elibank wood, where your line, sir, got entangled wi’ the auld oak-root, and yet at last ye landed him on the bank, wi’ a’ his crosses and his stars glitterin’ like gold and silver amang the gravel! I confess, sir, you’re the King o’ Anglers. But dinna tell me that you have lost your passion for the art; for we never lose our passion for ony pastime at which we continue to excel.”

THE LURE.

By “Bourgeois.”

Among the delightful summer resorts of Colorado Estes Park may be justly considered one of the most attractive. It is now easy of access. Seven years ago it began to be frequented, the trail having given way to the wagon road. Before the days of easy ingress, I had cast my lures upon the waters of the Thompson and Fall River, with gratifying success.

In the summer of 1875, the Governor, the Governor’s mother, and myself, determined upon Estes Park for a six weeks’ vacation. With this end in view, in the latter part of July, I sent off the team loaded with the camp outfit.

Two days after we took the morning train for Longmont, on the Colorado Central, and had an early lunch at the tail end of the wagon just outside the town. Before noon we were on the fifteen-mile drive into the canon of the St. Vrain, for camp.

By sunrise the following morning we had started, with twenty miles to make over a new road part of the way, and no road at all in places, and the places were many. However, we had to hitch on to the end of the tongue but once, to snake the wagon over an otherwise impassable boulder. The rock stood a foot out of ground, stretched entirely across where the road was to be, and at an angle of 45°. The team could barely get a foothold upon the top, when the traces were let out full, and the double-tree hooked on the end of the tongue. The horses understood their business, and upon a word settled their shoulders into the collars together, the breeching gradually lifted as their knees bent a little; without a slip their iron-shod hoofs held to the hard granite, and we were up as deftly as a French dancing master would raise his hat to a lady. In travelling in the hills there is nothing so gratifying as a team whose pulling powers you can swear by; a balky horse is an engine of destruction or death; if you know his failing, shoot him before you reach the foothills.

As the sun dropped behind the range, lighting up the high peaks with his golden rays, and the pines were beginning to take on tints of darker green, we reached the head of the Park, and within three miles of our camping ground. To the right of us “Olympus,” with the dying sunlight dancing on his granite head, to the left Long’s Peak, with patches of snow here and there, towering godlike above the surrounding giants. Before us, Prospect Mountain with its rugged front far reaching above its robes of green, while around its base and toward us came leaping the beautiful mountain stream for two miles through the meadow-hued park, with scarce a willow upon its banks. What a place to cast a fly! Aye, indeed it is; and what a place it was to catch trout. But we must move on around Prospect Mountain to Ferguson’s for camp, which we make on a little eminence near a great spring and close by the cabin where we know we shall be welcome.

A late supper disposed of, and the Governor stowed away in the blankets, Ferguson and I fall talking at his broad fire-place about Horse Shoe Park and Fall River; of course trout are plenty there; he had been up the day before and knew whereof he spoke; yes, there were quite a number of tourists in the park, but the streams were not “fished out.” He rather thought that with “a pole” to every rod of the stream the fishing improved; at least for him.

Our genial friend who obeyed Joshua in the long ago, was out of bed next day sooner than I. Dick, the pony, gave me a cheerful good morning as I put in an appearance and changed his picket pin. I received his salutation as a good omen.

Breakfast over and Dick saddled, it was eight o’clock. We had five miles to go. I strapped my rod and creel to the pommel, and with a caution to the Governor’s mother not to let him fall into the spring, Ferguson and I were off. There was no occasion to hurry; if we reached the beaver-dams in Horse Shoe Park by ten o’clock we would be just in time. Experience had taught me that the two hours before noon, and after five o’clock were the hours for success.

Our route was a “cut off” without any trail, but familiar; across the Thompson, up stream, westward for a mile, we turned up a “draw” to the right, for a swale in the ridge dividing the Thompson and its tributary, Fall River. By nine o’clock we had reached the summit of the divide. Before and below us lay a beautiful park, three miles in length, by a mile in width toward its upper end, where it rounded at the base of the mountain range, giving it the shape of a horse shoe, which no doubt suggested its name. To the north it is guarded by an immense mountain of rocks, where towering and impenetrable cliffs stand out against the background of blue sky, as though the Titans had some time builded there, and mother earth had turned their castles into ruins, and left them as monuments of her power. To the south a long, low-lying, pine-covered hill, while from the range in the west with its snow covered summit and base of soft verdure, comes a limpid stream winding down through the grass-covered park, its course marked by the deeper green of the wild grass and the willows. A mile away a band of mountain sheep are feeding; they have evidently been down to water and are making their way back to their haunts in the cliffs, and whence we know they will quickly scud when they see or wind us. Ferguson longed for his rifle; it was just his luck; he had the “old girl” with him the last time, but “nary hoof” had he seen. To me they were precious hints of man’s absence, and the wilderness.

Reaching the stream we picketed the ponies in the grass to their knees; the nutritious mountain grass, the mother of cream so thick that you have to dip it out of the jug with a spoon. The ponies were happy, and I became nervous; it seemed half an hour before I could get my tackle rigged. But after I had sent my favorite gray hackle on its mission and had snatched a ten-inch trout from his native element, my nerves were braced. A second and a third followed; I heard nothing from Ferguson except the “swish” of his old cane pole above the music of the waters. The trout struck and I landed them so fast that the sport began to be monotonous, and I followed up the sound of the cane. Going round a clump of willows I discovered the old gentleman upon the edge of the pool, and that old rod going up and down with the regularity of a trip hammer, the owner combining business and sport. I asked him what he was doing; he said he was fishing, and I thought he was.

Wandering up stream, taking it leisurely, I had by noon filled my creel, and was enjoying a sandwich under the shelter of some willows, when my companion came along with his sixteen pound lard-can filled, besides a dozen upon a stick. I asked him when he intended to quit. He said he had never seen fish “bite” so; he hated to stop, and yet had all he could carry, but concluded with me that enough was as good as a feast. Then he began to banter me about my ash and lancewood, and the excess of his catch over mine. I told him to wait till some other day. It came in the course of time, upon the same stream. The trout refused everything I had, grasshoppers included. Finally I fished up an old fly-book from the depths of my coat pocket, and in it were half a dozen nameless blue-bodied flies with a mouse-colored feather upon a number six Kirby. Upon sight, I remembered to have discarded them in disgust, but I thought I would try one for luck, and lo! the mystery was solved. I had been working industriously for two hours and had two trout. Ferguson had been no more successful, but was in sight when the trout began to rise to my cast-off fly. He came down my way, wanted to know what I was using, and I gave him one; he lost that and his leader in some half-sunken brush, and I gave him another. But his good genius had deserted him; I persuaded a trout right away from his lure, and he quit in disgust, while I said never a word. Though a little sensitive upon the score of success, he was and is a genial and companionable angler, and one who can make a good cast withal, an he have proper tools.

Willow Park, an adjunct to Estes Park, through which runs a branch of the Thompson, has afforded me many a day’s sport, and is nearer to camp. Upon a memorable occasion I had been fishing down stream, when, with a well-filled creel, I encountered a gigantic boulder on the hank. Just beyond it was a pool that was suggestive; to reach the base of the boulder it was necessary to get over a little bayou of about five feet in width and three in depth. To jump it were easy but for the willows, yet I must get to that pool. Selecting a place where I think the willows will give way to my weight, I essay the leap. My feet reach the opposite hank, my body presses back the brush, but I feel a rebound that assures me of my fate. I clutch frantically at the swaying bush; it breaks in my hand, and I sit down quite helplessly, muttering a prayer till the cold water bids me shut my mouth. Emerging I hear a well defined laugh, but not being in the mind to fear the spirits that haunt these wilds, I make for the base of that boulder and the coveted pool. A moment after I discover a face bedecked with glasses upon the opposite side of the brook, and recognize the smiling countenance of a genial member of the guild looking at me through the willows.

“Oh, is that you?”

To this lucid inquiry I reply in the affirmative. “Where’s Ferguson?”

“At home, I suppose.”

“I thought I heard him fall in the creek.”

I told him I did not think Ferguson had a monopoly of the bathing privileges of the Thompson and its tributaries.

“Well, I thought it was funny.”

“Thought what was funny?”

“Why, I heard the splash, and supposed it was Ferguson; then I remembered Ferguson was a church member in good standing.”

I took my revenge by competing with my brother for the contents of that pool, and beat him by one. But to this day he greets me with a smile. When I got back to camp I learned that the Governor had been trying to follow in the footsteps of his father, and had tumbled into the spring. He had been fished out by the combined efforts of his mother and Mrs. Ferguson, and I discovered him swathed in a blanket by the kitchen stove, mad as a hornet; I shook hands with him.

Our camp is pitched in a pleasant spot, with two tall pines, a hundred feet away, for sentinels. _Coup de soleil_ is unknown in Colorado, so I prefer the sun’s rays to lightning, especially while trees seared from top to bottom are plentiful in the Park as monitors. To the right is Prospect Mountain, with its west end a beetling cliff, perhaps two thousand feet high, where I once had the buck-ague during an interview with a “big-horn.” To the left and in front, the range, where the storm-king holds high carnival, while lower down and nearer is a mountain of towers and pinnacles of brown and red and gray, carved out by that whimsical sculptor, Old Time. With the sun for my artist, the range for both his easel and background, I have lounged away many an hour under one of the old pines. My gaze wandering down the green slope to the river half a mile away, and with the weird music of the tumbling waters coming and receding on the summer breeze to help my dreams, we have together wrought out fantastic ruins and ghostly shapes to people them. A drifting cloud, perhaps, will change a barbacan to a spire, and a Doric capital to a Corinthian, or the knight panoplied to a brownie with a lily for a throne, and

“......jolly satyrs, full of fresh delight,

Come dancing forth, and with them nimbly ledd

Faire Helenore, with girlonds all bespredd,

Whom their May-lady they had newly made;”