Chapter XLIII: Part II (18)

Let us hope, in the interest of this grand sport, that the sun may shine very brightly on the last Saturday of next May, that the number of coaches be quadrupled, and that all the beauty of New York occupy the seats on the tops of the different drags.

SALMON FISHING ON LOCH TAY.

BY “ROCKWOOD.”

~Partridges~ and pheasants have just come under the protection of the Close Time Act, and the gun has been laid in its old place on the rack, there to remain till the 12th of August, when the grouse-shooting opens; the greyhound courser is thinking of the near approach of Waterloo, when, on the plains of Altcar, at Liverpool, the Blue Riband of the Leash will be fought for amongst the cracks of the “longtails;” the fox-hunters of the shires are hard at it and keen as ever, though their horses are leg-weary and suffering from overreaching and attendant sprains of the sinews, when we fly north from London by the London and Northwestern Railway _en route_ to Loch Tay for the early spring salmon fishing.

Every Scottish lake has had its poet. Scott and Christopher North have in prose celebrated the praises of Loch Lomond. The Gaelic bards, like Robb Donn Mackay, have sung of Loch Maree, the silent and majestic, beloved of all the lakes by Her Majesty the Queen; but Loch Tay is the loch of the angler and the sportsman. It is, _par excellence_, _the lake home_ of the Scottish salmon, that fish which, viking-like, cruises annually along the west side of the German Ocean, and with health and vigor charges mill-lades, linns, weirs, and a hundred other obstacles, with all the fury of a Highlandman on a battle-field, and not a little of the Celt’s cunning in dodging round the ends of stake-nets on his return to his native waters.

The Purdies and the Kers of the Border may swear by the superior charms of killing “a guid Tweed fush.” On the Solway Dee they will contest for the merits of their own waters, and where the Dee of Aberdeenshire sweeps through the woods of Invercauld and down under the shadow of the windows of Balmoral, the Farquharsons and the Gordons, adepts at throwing a long fly, will hold in contempt the anglers of less favored streams. Each riverman has his opinion, yet all are agreed that Loch Tay is the premier fishing loch.

This magnificent sheet of water drains, by means of the rivers Dochart and Lochy, the large range of hills which guard central Scotland from the storms which sweep across the Atlantic past the North of Ireland, and to whose accompaniment of heavy seas Mull, Skye, and other of the Hebridean islands form a huge breakwater. Loch Awe takes the drainage of the west water-shed, the river Awe carrying it through the Pass of Brander to the Atlantic. Loch Tay gathers all on the east and north and carries it by means of the silver Tay right across Scotland to the German Ocean, through varied and unsurpassed scenes of beauty. Onward the river flows, under the walls of stately mansions, once the homes of fierce chieftains, now the residences of enthusiastic sportsmen. Among these the most noted is Murthly Castle, where Sir John Millais every year makes known to the salmon the lightness of the hand required to successfully apply a brush to canvas.

But the train whirls northward, through counties renowned in hunting song, past old coaching “half-way” houses, famous in the history of the English mail coach. Here the travelers of sixty years ago used to hold merry jinks, whilst the coachman fretted and the guard shouted and four good steeds pawed the sward, anxious to start on the next stage. On between blazing furnaces, the coal ground of the iron horse, past reeking coal pits. Descending those dark shafts and traveling along every corner of the mine, you will find British sportsmen, each as ready and as enthusiastic in backing a horse or a greyhound as his master, the wealthy mine owner and member of the Jockey Club. Over the Cumberland hills, where wrestling is still the favorite pastime, as in days of yore, to merry Carlisle, that old English border-town which was the scene of many a fierce battle between Scotch and English. Skirting Gretna Green, where runaway couples were hitched tight by the old blacksmith in the days when marriages were made more binding than now, Bectloch summit is crossed, and soon the train crosses the Clyde valley. At Stirling Junction carriages have to be changed, and while the setting sun is gilding the western sky, we dip from Killin old station, beyond Callande, down into the lovely valley of the Dochart, to Killin, the capital of Breadalbane and the head fishing quarters of Loch Tay; and this, too, only twelve hours after leaving Euston Station, London.

All the time the talk has been of fish and fishing-rods, of big fish that were caught and the far bigger fish that escaped. The angling romancer has a special license as regards story-telling. Rarely, indeed, does he fail to take full advantage of his privilege. But in the journey up the talk has been all of the past; now it is all of the future; the hope is of the morrow.

Stewart, the landlord of “The Royal,” is too busy looking to the comfort of his guests to answer all the questions so eagerly put by the new-comers; but the boatmen of the lake stand near, ready to shake hands with old patrons and to tell them that in the late floods “the fish have jist been literally croodin’ into the loch, till there’s scarcely room for them unless they lie heids and thraws [head and foot] like bairns in a bed.” The Scottish boatman does not promise so much as his Irish brother, who said that the snipe in the bog were “jist jostlin’ wan another, sir,” but he does not find it advantageous to damp your spirits with prospects of indifferent sport. A shilling or so will make them happy enough in the back bar of the hotel. There, in Gaelic, they will hook and kill salmon which they gaffed long ago for old sportsmen long since dead, for the ranks of _the_ opening-day fishers of Loch Tay have of late been very much thinned of veterans.

Before breakfast the early-rising angler will have time to explore Killin, which is beautifully situated within the peninsula formed by the confluence of the rivers Dochart and Lochy. The great Dr. McCulloch, most charming of all writers on Scottish landscape, says: “Killin is the most extraordinary collection of extraordinary scenery in all Scotland; unlike everything else in the country and perhaps on earth, and a perfect picture gallery in itself, since you cannot move three yards without meeting a new landscape. A busy artist might here draw a month and not exhaust it. Fir-trees, rocks, torrents, mills, bridges, houses--these produce the great bulk of the middle landscape, under endless combinations; while the distances more constantly are found in the surrounding hills, in their varied woods, in the bright expanse of the lake and the minute ornaments of the distant valley, in the rocks and bold summit of Craig-Cailliach, and in the lofty vision of Ben Lawers, which towers like a huge giant in the clouds--monarch of the scene.” This picture we can endorse, having seen Killin in all seasons of the year, when the Dochart in spate was foaming and churning among the rocks and the tree-roots of the numerous wooded islands; where the bluebell and fox-glove bloomed bonnily on the banks of the Lochy in early summer, and again where the red glow on the upper mountain betokened that the grouse-hiding heather was in full bell. But the angler loves it best when Ben Lawers has on his nightcap of snow. No matter though a snow-shower sweeps like spin-drift before a squall and makes him shiver as he watches the rods at the stern, if he have the shelter of the bays and the “saumont” is in a taking mood.

But the “halesome parritch” is reeking on the breakfast table, and every angler, be he Scotchman or not, will be wise if he puts the contents of a “coggie” and some rich milk from a Highland cow within him. They will keep heart in him and cold without all day, besides “man,” as his boatman will tell him, “they mak’ gran’ bottoming for the whisky ane maun keep drinking.” Breakfast over, the boats are soon manned where they lie at the lochy a few minutes’ walk from the hotel door. This leads to a description of the system of fishing which is pursued on the lake.

Except the reserved water of the Marquis of Breadalbane, the proprietor, who keeps a favorite portion for himself and his guests, the rights belong to the hotel proprietors, whose houses are situated on the lake. Kenmore Hotel has four boats and about eight miles of water at the east end of the loch, and across its whole breadth. Killin Hotel has six boats, and its beat extends to about eight miles, also across the whole breadth. Bridge of Lochay Inn, with three boats, has the same water as the Killin Hotel. Ardenaig Inn has two boats, and Lawers Inn, at the foot of Ben Lawers, two boats. The regulations at these hotels are the same, each boat being allowed to carry only two rods at £5 per week, or 25 shillings a day; if two anglers are in one boat, at 30 shillings a day, all fish caught to be the property of the angler. Two boatmen are necessary, and these are paid 3s. 8d. per day, the angler allowing them luncheon only when he feels so disposed. This, no doubt, looks very costly, but when the sport obtained is considered, in reality it seems very cheap. Take the following score made by Mr. I. Watson Lyall, made through the favor of Lord Breadalbane a few years ago:

Feb. 5.--Opening day, after two o’clock ~P. M.~,
8 salmon, 28, 23, 23, 21, 20, 19,
18 and 16 lbs. 168

Feb. 6.--6 salmon, 32, 20, 20, 18, 19, 17 lbs. 126

Feb. 7.--4 salmon, 20, 19, 23 and 18 lbs. 80

Feb. 8.--Weather too stormy for fishing. --

Feb. 9.--6 salmon, 32, 17, 22, 19, 21, 17 lbs. 128

Feb. 10.--Stopped at two o’clock, 2 salmon,
30 and 19 lbs. 49
---
Total for five days’ fishing, 26 salmon,
weight lbs. 551

Not bad fishing that, and far from costly when salmon is selling in London at two shillings per pound.

The fish, which rarely weigh under twenty pounds, fight strongly, and carry out as much as eighty yards of line at a single rush, so that they always give magnificent sport before being landed. For some reason or other which cannot be explained, they will not rise to the fly. Phantom minnows of the ordinary form are used, with small screw-propellers at the nose to make them spin, and the better they spin the more likely is the angler to be successful. On arrival at the fishing-ground, the rods, which as a rule are fourteen feet long, are fixed in little forked rests and so made to point sternward at an angle over the gunwale. Forty yards of line are let out to trail (some allow as many as sixty yards), and a small stone is placed upon a part of the line under each of the rods. When these stones are jerked off, the watchful angler knows that he is fast in a fish. There are, of course, certain favorite bits of water, and these the boatmen take the rods over with great care.

The Loch Tay tackle has for some reason or other remained very heavy, and so boats cannot be taken close inshore for fear of the lines fouling the rocks or the weeds, which grow in many places in rich profusion at the bottom. And yet in these waters, near the shore, the most of the salmon are to be found lying in wait for food. Last year the heaviest salmon of the year--a magnificent forty-pounder--was caught with the lightest tackle and lightest rod ever used, and so there is very likely to be a considerable reform in Loch Tay trolling rods within the next few years. The capture of this fish is worth relating.

Mr. Geen, of Richmond, Surrey, a famous angler of southern waters, had determined to use the very finest tackle, notwithstanding remonstrances from fellow-anglers and boatmen. He made up his mind that with lighter tackle he could “troll” his phantom a few feet nearer the surface than with heavy tackle, an undoubted advantage in the bays, and that with a line less likely to be seen a fish was far more likely to take the bait. A light rod, he moreover thought, would kill a fish once caught, quicker than one which had neither spring nor balance, so he used what might be classed as an ordinary fly trouting rod of cane, with greenheart top. All the epithets of derision to be found in the Gaelic dialect were hurled at this determined innovation. Mark the sequel, and with it the adventure, one of the greatest feats of perseverance with a salmon under difficulties ever known in any angling water.

One of those sudden squalls which come down on Loch Tay and raise lumpy water in the centre came up. To seek shelter from it, he directed his two Highland boatmen to keep as near the shore as possible, so as to come circling round on the landward side of the fleet. This was close to a bold bluff known as Fat Man’s Rock. It was well on to five o’clock in the afternoon, and he had not struck a fish. Suddenly the stone sprang off the line under his inner rod as the boat swept round, and the reel began to run with a desperate speed and noise.

“We have got hold of the county,” said his boatmen--this being an ironical way of saying that he had hooked the land.

“No, we’ve not; it’s a fish,” said Mr. Geen, seizing the rod.

A fish, and a good one it was, too, for away it went seaward for 100 yards with a rush which staggered the boat, and then, salmon-like, jumped into the air. It was not long, however, before it returned to the place it was hooked, and here it began to be most troublesome among the rocks. These troubles, however, were small compared with what were to follow. As they reached deeper water again, his holder began to handle with much success, apparently, for he got him almost within reach of the gaff. _Almost_, but unfortunately _not quite_. James reached out, but miscalculated his distance, caught the line, and Mr. Geen felt something slip. His heart fell. Was he free? No! for immediately the music of the reel was heard again, and he was off, this time right to the bottom, sunk like a newly harpooned whale. There he assumed the customary sulky disposition. In vain they tried to drop stones on him. He was fully sixty yards down, and the stones no doubt never dropped near him. The weight of the rod was tried on him, with the result that six feet broke off at the top.

Darkness was now gathering, and the boats were crowding down homeward to Killin and the Lochy Hotel. There was little sympathy on the part of boatmen and sportsmen for the gentleman with the light tackle and the cane rod. Some said he had hold of “the county,” others that his fish was a small one, too much for his rod, and some betted him two to one that he would not get it. One gentleman hailed him and said: “I will stand by you all night, and watch the result.” This gentleman, though he had not touched a fish for three days, was rewarded in the next five minutes by a salmon on his own line--the recompense of true sympathy with a fellow sportsman.

But what was to be done, and how was the rod to be mended? “Row quietly out, James, so that I may cut all my trolling line” (the line which is used outside the boat), “and I will put him on the other rod.” This was slowly done, till the line was fastened quietly on the second rod; though for precaution it was still, for the time, kept fast on the broken rod. The broken rod was then slipped by cutting off the connection, and once more Mr. Geen was prepared to fight in earnest, but this time against almost pitch darkness.

“We maun raise him, sir; he’s a deed fish,” said James; “he’s like a stane at the bottom.”

Inch by inch for sixty yards of line did James draw him up. At last he said: “I have come to the first swivel.” Still no fish showed the white of its belly. Up and up an inch or two more, and then--

“She’s gone, James!” said the holder of the rod, breathless with excitement, as the boatman made a lightning movement.

“Yes, sir. Give him the gaff!” and the next instant the magnificent fish was in the boat. Yes, there he was, _hooked by the back fin_. No wonder, indeed, that he was hard to lift. The reason that he had been hooked foul was because he had somehow got a turn or two of the line round his body, and while the hook had been jerked out of his mouth at the first time of gaffing, it slipped round and fouled him.

It was eight o’clock when the boat got back to Killin, and the whole village, man, woman and child, turned out to learn of this wonderful exploit, which will long be talked of on Loch Tay side.

Because Mr. Geen fought and killed this salmon successfully, it would be absurd to argue that all men who fish under the shadow of Ben Lawers should follow his example and fish with tackle of the finest quality, and rods as springy as a tandem whip. It will be argued by many that the difficulties in landing the fish were partly his own creation, _i. e._, the use of a rod which was not equal to the heaviest Loch Tay fish. We have had the pleasure of handling the rod, which is one of Canter’s best make. We have no hesitation in saying that though a lady might handle it without fatigue, it would prove far more fatiguing to a fish than the stiff rods at present in use on the lake. A salmon would come quicker within reach of the gaff when such a rod were wielded by good hands--and a man with bad hands will never make a good steersman or a clever man on horseback.

An invention made by Mr. Geen we liked much. It is a telescopic extra length of rod which drops off when the butt is seized and a fish is about to be played. This arrangement permits the point of the rod, in trolling, to be lowered, so that the angle between the phantom and the point is made more oblique, and the more oblique the angle is made the higher in the water will remain the lure. This is a matter of the utmost importance with revolving baits, as the screw will not work at times unless kept going almost parallel to the waterline, and the illusion remains incomplete. If any one is exercised in his mind about this, let him take a phantom and attach head and tail to something which will whirl round at the rate of six or eight revolutions per second, and he will understand the necessity. Hooks and all disappear, and you see but a small fish, and so does the salmon. Stop the revolutions and you see a fish with hooks, barbs, and everything else. I believe the double-screw propeller, which I saw some years ago, though not successful when applied to ships, would do well for phantoms, as giving one extra spin. However, it might raise the Gaelic bile to say too much, and when that is raised there are more than broken rods flying about.

When the fishing on Loch Tay palls on the angler, he may have some capital off-days in the neighborhood, a drive up Glenlocky being a favorite. The hotel is noted for its good horses. Then one can have a sail up the lake in these little fresh-water models of Atlantic greyhounds, _The Lady of the Lake_, and _Alma Carlotta_, to Kenmore. These pretty little steamers were designed by Mr. G. L. Watson, whose name is so well known in the yachting world. At Kenmore the beautiful grounds of Taymouth Castle may be visited, and they are well worthy of it, as there is nothing to beat them in either the Highlands or Lowlands of Scotland. Three miles beyond Kenmore is Abergeldy, where are the celebrated Banks of Abergeldy, whose praises the poet Burns has celebrated in undying song. The ascent of Ben Lawers may be made from Ben Lawers Inn, and a grand view of the Taymouth district be obtained, as it is the fourth highest mountain in Scotland.

As a rule, many of the off-days are spent nearer home, and a much frequented spot is the old ruins of Finlarig Abbey, close to Killin, and situated on the banks of the lake. One of the smoking-room stories tells how on one occasion, before an off-day party had been arranged by Stewart the landlord, a Macgregor had been bouncing about his famous ancestor, Rob Roy, in a manner which would have astonished the famous cateran himself. These, if not taken with a pinch of snuff, would denote that the Macgregor was always jumping rivers at the widest points, and playing at hop, step and jump from Ben Lomond to the Cobbler, and from the Cobbler over to Ben Lawers. Common report makes Rob out to have been a very clever gentleman cattle-lifter, but when a Macgregor gets hold of a few southern anglers over a tumbler of toddy in the smoking-room of a Scotch hotel, he is allowed to make him execute performances worthy of Jupiter. And “ye must na’ doot the word o’ a Macgregor, for ye ken it has aye been true, no like the word o’ the Cammells, which has never been kept.”

To get a joke out of a real genuine Macgregor was quietly suggested, and next day it was fully carried out. In the large hotel drag the Macgregor of the party was allowed to continue his marvelous sketches of the old chief’s exploits.

“But,” said a Saxon of the party, “how does it happen that all the places of interest connected with the Macgregor family are associated with escape? In Loch Lomond you are pointed out his Cave of Refuge; on the burn at Inversnead, the place he jumped when pursued, and the same in the Lyon--all, too, when fleeing from a Campbell.”

“A Cammell, did you say? A Macgregor flee from a Cammell? Never! It takes ten Cammells to make a Macgregor turn his back. Say a hundred Cammells and you will be right. Rob Roy flee frae a Cammell? That’s impossible! No; when his foot was on his native heath, and his good broadsword in his hand, all the dead Cammells that are in the ill place itself would never have made him run. Sir, you do not know the speerit o’ the Macgregors!”

“But they were a lawless, useless lot,” was the interruption of another knight of the rod, “and the country around here never did any good till they got rid of them in the old-fashioned Scotch way.”

“What do you call the old-fashioned Scotch way?”

“Oh, the gallows; dancing Gillie Callum and the Highland fling from an ash bush, with three feet of daylight below them.”

“And who dare do that with a Macgregor?” was the response, in tones of thunder.

Fortunately the skirr of the brake on the wheels of the trap, as Stewart took a pull at his horses, stopped the conversation. It heralded, also, our arrival at the old castle gates. The castle of Finlarig was in stormy times the residence of the Breadalbane Campbells, and the “auld laird” who occupied it made short work of such as were not Campbells who were found straying in the neighborhood. As the party walked in quietly, Stewart whispered to Mrs. Campbell, the guide, “When ye come to the hangman’s-tree ye maun say ‘saxty Macgregors’, instead of sax.”

“Guid save us, Mr. Stewart! Saxty Macgregors!” was the astonished reply, “that would be the hale clan o’ them!”

“Never mind; say saxty,” was the whispered answer.

The old ruins having been well explored--the Macgregor fuming all the time because “Sassenach fushing-men” would persist in making comparisons in its favor with the dirty old fox-kennel-like caves in which Rob Roy used to live--the party was then shown the old gallows-tree.

“Thet’s the plece,” said Mrs. Campbell, “where the auld laird hanged saxty Macgregors one morning before his breakfast.”

“Gregarach, woman! ye dinna say sae. It could na be saxty Macgregors,” was the indignant response of Rob Roy’s descendant.

“Saxty Macgregors, I say--saxty Highland vagabonds, if ye like; a half-dizzen [dozen] at a time. And a bonnie braw mornin’s work, nae doubt, it would be for the country side!”

“Saxty Macgregors allow themselves to be hanged! Hoots, woman, ye be bletherin’; they could nae have been true Macgregors!”

“_True_ Macgregors? Weel, I’ll no say that; the Lord never made sich a thing as a _true_ Macgregor.”

“And never anything but false Cammells. Saxty Macgregors!” and the champion of the old clan fairly wept for his unfortunate countrymen. Had the Maccalumore himself looked in and a claymore been handy, there would have been more tragic narrative. Humbled before the Sassenachs, he remained silent till the graves of Black Duncan and the old Campbell chief were pointed out, and then he had his revenge.

Jumping into the vault, he shouted to the attendant piper to play up “Macgregor’s March.” He then danced on the stones above the grave till the sparks were flying from the hobnails of his heavy boots. Ever and anon, as he wheeled and jumped, he uttered the words, “Saxty Macgregors!--hang saxty Macgregors! the scoundrels! Blaw up, piper, a guid auld Macgregor reel tune, Rothermurchis Rout, or anything with the music o’ the deevil in it. I could dance over a Cammell’s bones for a fortnicht!”

Mrs. Campbell possibly did not relish the performance as much as the “Sassenach fushing-men,” but very wisely did not interfere. Had there been a hatchet on the spot, the gallows-tree would soon have been removed and flung into the vault or hollow. Fortunately there was nothing better handy than the old headsman’s axe of the Stuart period (James Rex) given in the picture.

The Macgregor told no stories in the smoking-room that night about the feats of his ancestors, but if any “Bleck McFlea” roused him in the night-time, he was heard murmuring “Saxty Macgregors!” and then letting forth his opinions of the whole Clan Campbell in certain Gaelic words which are forbidden to be used by the Free Kirk in preaching Gaelic sermons. The little story of the gallows-tree at Finlarig Castle, where he was fair effronted afore the “fusher’s folk,” still haunts him, and he shows this by sudden fits of temper, which seemed to worry him when on the streets. But the smoking-room at Killin reeks with fishing stories and anecdotes of the kind, and more than one number of ~Outing~ would be required to give them as they are given, over a tumbler of good Scotch whisky toddy, after a long day in the boats when salmon fishing on Loch Tay.

SONNET.

The moon shone full upon the tide,
On whose dark, heaving bosom wide
The white light broke, till far and near,
With dancing jewels, silver-clear,
The sullen waves were glorified.

We spoke no word--all beauties vied
To charm our souls; and, satisfied,
We felt no care, no doubt, no fear--
For there we vowed, in accents dear,
To walk life’s pathway side by side.

_Howell Stroud England._

WINTER SHOOTING IN FLORIDA.

BY F. CAMPBELL MOLLER.

With the middle of December the upland shooting in the Eastern States comes virtually to an end. To be sure, a couple of weeks remain before the curtain of legal protection descends over the game still to be found in the dead fields and snow-whitened coppices on the first day of the new year, but the remnants of the quail bevies are wild, and, in much shot-over districts, begin to approach in their watchful behavior and antics the typical wariness of the hawk. As for the ruffed-grouse, one needs to be a thorough workman, both in shooting and stalking, to render even a tolerable account of these birds. The last woodcock was seen nearly a month ago, this mid December day, as one fired and missed him among the black alders, and he is up and away on the next stage of his journey to the swamp-lands of the Carolinas or the Mississippi.

The sportsman resident of the country may at this season of the year have an occasional sun-gilded winter’s day with the setters, when the breeze comes warm from the south. But more often will he be listening to the tinkling, musical notes of his beagles as the brown hare leads them a circling chase through the brier-fields, or the deeper notes of the fox-hounds will strike upon his ear as they echo among the gray cliffs of the brown-treed mountain-side.

Yes, it may not seem to be quite the correct thing to my English readers, but we shoot foxes from a “runaway” in the rough, wooded, hilly country of the Eastern States, where it would be impossible to ride to hounds, and gladly do we accept this chance to rid our farmers of this destroyer of game and poultry.

After the 1st of January, comes the exodus of fashion, sport and ill-health from the rigors and blizzards of a Northern winter, and many are the queries from brethren of the gun, visiting for the first time the land of Spanish-moss and palm-trees, to those who have shot quail among the wild violets and sweet jessamine in the Carolinas during early springtime, or “plugged” alligators in some muddy “backout” of the Upper St. John.

No matter whether he knows how to use a gun or not, nearly every man off for an outing in the South thinks it necessary to take with him some such weapon for the destruction of animal life. This fact, in brief, is sufficient reason for the scarcity of game along the shore and in the waters of the traveled portion of the St. John’s River. Continual bombarding has driven the denizens of flood and field to remoter districts, and if one wishes really good sport, he must literally hunt for it.

The majority of men going South solely for sport take the Charleston, Savannah or Fernandina steamers, continuing by rail, if necessary, to their destination, which is certainly the most economical procedure, especially if one’s dogs be taken. This should always be done, if possible, as a dog fit for a sportsman to shoot over can rarely be hired or even bought in Florida until the end of the season.

If quail-shooting be the expressed desideratum, one had better confine one’s self to the Carolinas or to Georgia, both for quantity and proper ground to shoot over. But if he desires a variety, such as snipe, deer, ’gator and quail shooting, all on diverse grounds, lying, however, in the sweep of a short radius from the spot he makes his headquarters, Florida must needs be his objective.

If one is not going below the Carolinas, a rifle will be an unnecessary encumbrance. Bird-shooting alone will be obtainable unless you visit the wild mountainous country far from the paths of the Northern tourist. Here the shotgun and buckshot are the chief agents used in killing deer, and, in this sport as practiced in that section of the wildwoods, one must nearly always be able to ride well; and unless one is shooting on some friend’s invitation, he must also pay well for the auxiliaries necessary to secure a shot at the denizens of the woods.

The same directions will apply to “jumping” deer with dogs from among the stunted scrub covers of the Florida brakes. One generally shoots from horseback at the small deer of this region, because the saddle affords a much better opportunity of seeing over the clumps of dwarf oaks or palmettos than would be obtained on foot.

For alligator shooting a heavy bored rifle--especially an express--will be indispensable. A forty-four calibre repeater will, however, be found to answer very well for all-round work on the river. And here, let me at once dissipate any tyro’s fallacious belief regarding the invulnerability of the American saurian, save in the eye. I have known them--aye, big ones at that--to be killed with buckshot from a close-carrying shotgun, at a distance of thirty-five yards by planting a few pellets behind the fore-shoulder, and in the thinner skin of the lateral abdominal walls. Frequently a second or even a third shot at close range will be necessary to finish them as they lie floundering in the shoal and blood-stained shore-waters by the side of a half-submerged old tree-trunk. But more of ’gator shooting anon.

Tweed clothes of light color and loosely woven texture should be worn for Florida sporting, as it is warm shooting there even in midwinter. When shooting or outing generally, it is much better to increase the thickness and warmth of the underclothing as the coolness of weather renders such advisable, than to encumber one’s movements by heavy coats and trousers. A pair of thick, oil-tanned grained-leather knee-boots with legs made as narrow as permissible, to be worn with thick-ribbed, long hose, will be found the best shoeing to be used in the Florida bottoms. The long boots, coming over the buttonings of the snug-fitting knee-breeches of whipcord--not knickerbockers, mind you--where they fasten just above the swell of the calf, will be found the most comfortable and consistent rig, whether splashing through the sloppy prairies, along the river after snipe, or tramping the waste fields in the clearings between the pine woods. Should you wear ankle-boots and the baggy knickerbockers, always don a pair of thick leathern leggings as an indispensable precaution against the musical and larksome rattler.

Along the St. John’s, from Magnolia to Enterprise, increasing proportionately as one nears the latter place, fair sport may be had with all the before-mentioned varieties of game by driving or boating far enough into the recesses of the back country, away from the spots easily reached by the average hotel lounger. But for really good shooting one must get over into the Indian River region, or, better still, the Hummocks on the Gulf coast, and especially about Homassassa, if he wants good accommodation and an abundance of deer, quail, and snipe as well as bass fishing. Below Lake Georges and extending toward the Everglades is an immense breadth of country, comparatively unknown, rich in sport and adventure to the exploring tourist who is willing to endure much rough travel by canoe and portage, and to pitch his tent o’ nights in the great dense swamp-lands.

In Florida, quail are mostly shot in the open of the stubble fields or clearings, or in the slight cover underlying the tall, shadowy pine-lands, for the simple reason that the “thickets” in the far South are almost impassable. I remember once following a bevy of quail, flushed from an old maize field, into a bordering covert of prickly plum, cactus and palmetto, with the same indifference with which I generally plunge into the many-stemmed alder-brake or waist-high cat-briers at home. I shall never do it again. Let the bevy go! Start up a fresh one, and trust to your skill in “driving” them into lyings more favorable for your purposes, if not for theirs.

For shooting in the country back from one’s hotel a wagon and pair will be needed, and, unless you are well acquainted with the region, a driver and guide combined, be he “Cracker,” “Nigger” or Indian. As most of these gentry do a little pot-shooting themselves, in season and out, they will generally insure you good sport, particularly if the man is made to understand that an extra “tip” may be forthcoming, when you return in the evening, proportionate with the amount of game found.

A deal of shooting is done driving through the rough country, among the pine woods, leaving at times the sandy road for miles together, provided the undergrowth be not too dense. And with the dogs quartering on each side of the wagon, one has but to get out and shoot when a point is obtained.

I find No. 10 shot, backed by a heavy charge of powder, the best size for shooting Southern quail, which, by the way, are a trifle smaller than the Northern bird, although identical in all other respects. No. 10 shot is also the proper size for snipe. Some capital bags of these migratory birds may be obtained even on the meadows--or prairies as they are called in Florida--suburban to Jacksonville.

But quail and snipe shooting in the South, with trifling differences as to covert, haunt and lyings, inseparable from the richness of the tropical setting and coloring, will be found so analogous to the same sport in the North that further comment is unnecessary. However, it will prove a new and delightful experience to the Northern sportsman to flush birds, as is frequently done, in the scent-laden atmosphere amid the glorious coppery splashes of color of an orange grove, and see through the tree-stems the blue St. John’s flashing its sapphire width in the warmth of golden sunlight, and the solitary giant palm rising here and there along the far, sandy shore.

A day with the alligators is not bad sport when properly undertaken and provided for; and the hide, teeth and feet will put you in possession of much valuable material to be made into bags, leggings, slippers, shoes, whistles, and gun-racks. But since the utility of the ’gator’s hide has been discovered, they, too, are fast disappearing from the places wherein they formerly abounded.

This sort of sport does not demand an early morning start. The best time to approach within easy range of the alligators is while they are taking their siesta at midday or early afternoon, sunning themselves on the bog burrocks, which, in lieu of a beach, mark the line of demarcation between the waters of the bayou and the swampy forest bottoms.

Your skiff and man--who, by the way, should be a good paddler and familiar with the haunts of the quarry you intend pursuing--having been engaged over-night, you may breakfast as late and as leisurely as you will, provided you have not too far to row to your proposed ground before high noon. So, enjoy your repast of fresh fish and game of the region, after having previously coolingly and deliciously prepared your palate with a goblet full of pure orange juice from fruit plucked that morning. Your sable attendant is waiting outside in the warm, genial sunshine, in which all of his color love to work for periods almost indefinite, and relieves your waiter first of all, because to him the most important, of the luncheon hamper, grinning the while, and giving a soft “chaw! chaw!” as he hefts its portentous weight and eyes the claret and beer bottles protruding from one of the partly raised lids. This all being to his entire satisfaction, he will pick up your macintosh coat and shotgun and precede the way to his boat. You take a gun as well as a rifle, as doubtless you will get some shots at ducks and shore-birds as you row to the creek and back, especially the latter, because the evening flight will then be on.

Your man may have pulled you for nearly an hour, and as you near a bay which marks the outlet of a creek leading to the lagoon where you intend paddling for ’gators, an object well out from shore attracts attention. It looks like a water-logged dead branch floating under water, save for three knotty protuberances rising above the placid surface. It is the snout, orbital bone and topmost spinal joint of a ’gator, at least eight feet in length, judging the distances between the slightly exposed portions of his scaly frame. No use firing at him; even if one did hit the small mark he gives at 200 yards, he would only be lost, for a dead or wounded alligator will always sink to the bottom, and there, where that old chap is floating in silent content, the water is much too deep to use the long boat-hook or the grapnel to fetch his body to the surface.

Entering the bayou, the darky exchanges the oars for a thing he calls a paddle. Not as delicately shaped is it as are those you have used about Bar Harbor or on the Adirondack lakes, but it will answer the purpose admirably. You seat yourself in the bow of the boat with your repeater across your knees. There is a fascination in this coasting along the weird, shadowy banks of the tropical creek, with its wealth of beautifully and vividly colored birds. Rounding into the entrance of the lagoon one sees a flock of white heron with wings glistening and flashing in the sunlight as they fly over yonder moss-hung headland; and the brilliant flamingo dyes with a gliding streak of salmon-pink his reflected flight in the shaded, still waters underlying the wild tangle of the wooded shore along which your boat is silently creeping. The skiff rounds the headland.

“Look yaar, sah! Dere he be--ole ’gator on a lorg.”

“Where? where?” is hastily whispered, as you anxiously scan the shore-line for a hundred yards ahead. Nothing, however, meets the inexperienced eye but a wild reach of water-grass, rushes, bog-burrocks and partly submerged fallen tree-trunks.

“Dar, sah! under dat big cypress, ’bout ten rod ahead, and lying on de lorg on de show. Shoot, or he’ll be orf next minit,” hurriedly whispers your “gillie.”

“Ah! there he is.” One holds just back of the fore-shoulder. Bang! “He’s hit!” Then his tail wildly beats the air, and he rolls into the water, which just covers but does not conceal his frantic contortions, only to expose himself to a second shot as he flounders up on some sunken logs. The man has grasped the oars after the first shot, and is rowing rapidly to the spot where the mud and spray are being whirled vigorously about.

“Give him a shot in the neck.” Missed! but no matter.

Now we’re within twenty yards of him. “Stop, Joe; don’t row up any farther. Keep well out of the reach of his tail.” Now, pump another ball at his head or neck to break his cervical vertebræ. “Good!” He rolls off the log, but “rolled off dead, shoo,” says woolly-head, showing his ivories, and getting the long-pointed hook ready for use when the blood-stained waters shall have cleared away.

While the darky busies himself with removing the alligator’s skin, you start off for a shot at a flock of teal which has come dangerously near, and perhaps you also secure some plover. There is every reason to be satisfied as you turn your boat down stream for home. The waters are aglow in the evening sun; not a breath of air is stirring; everywhere calm and quiet. You puff away at your pipe, and as you gaze at the ’gator skin in the bottom of your skiff, you find a use for every tooth and every inch of hide, and you picture to yourself the pleasure you are going to give to numerous friends. It is well to dispose of your cargo in this way before you make your landing, for there at the wharf you will find assembled the usual contingent of pretty girls waiting for the evening steamer and the return of the different boating and shooting parties. Hard-hearted will you have to be to withstand the pleadings for mementos, etc., and there is every probability that when you reach your hotel all that you have left will be the memory of a pleasant afternoon with a ’gator.

THE CRUISE OF THE FROLIC.

BY S. G. W. BENJAMIN.

There is no cruising-ground on the coast of the United States equal to that around Massachusetts Bay, and north as far as Portsmouth. The ports are frequent and generally easy of access, and the variety of scenery, the picturesque nature of the coast, the sea flavor about the character of the people, and the quaintness of the towns of that region invest it with singular raciness and an endless variety of charm. Our yachtsmen are fast finding this out, although I think one can better enjoy and appreciate these attractions when cruising in a small five-tonner than in a large yacht, or in the company of a fleet, for there are many curious nooks which only such a wee ship, off on a roving commission by itself, would think of visiting. And it is this very dodging among these odd corners of our coast that adds especial zest to the enjoyments of your cruising yachtsman.

So much by way of preface to the statement that a lot of jolly sons of Gotham made up their minds, on a certain summer in the eighties, to fly the hurry of Wall Street and the temptations of a sinful metropolis for the pure breezes of ocean, following in the wake of the sea serpent and of the Pilgrim discoverers.

No seaport in America offers so many small craft handy for inexpensive cruising as Boston. And hither Benton, our Corinthian skipper, and the writer of this log hied in search of a suitable sloop or schooner obtainable at a reasonable sum. The keel sloop _Frolic_ was finally selected, and put into proper condition by the addition of fresh paint, new cushions and curtains, a yawl, and the like. Charts and compass, lead and fishing-lines, a new cable, and a stock of provisions, including a supply of fluids, were also put on board; the rigging was set up anew, and last, but not least, the crew was engaged. It consisted of one pock-marked, grizzly-bearded mariner, whose appearance was not altogether in his favor. But he came well recommended; had been mate of a brig, it was stated, and had also sailed in many yachts. He declared himself able and willing to pilot us into every port as far as Eastport, to do “light cooking,” to serve as steward, and bear a hand in working the sloop; he was, in fact, a paragon of nautical excellences. My experience has led me to doubt those who lay claim to such versatility and virtue, whether on land or sea, whether in matters horsey or matters marine. But Mr. Brown was the best who offered, and was therefore regularly enrolled on the ship’s list of the _Frolic_.

Scarcely was everything in readiness when Will Hallett and Frank Weller arrived from New York, and made signals from the wharf that they desired to be taken on board with their traps. For them the proposed cruise was one of unusual interest, as they were novices in cruising, although not altogether ignorant on the score of boat sailing. They anticipated no end of fun, far more, doubtless, than is generally found in these summer wanderings along the coast, which are sources rather of quiet, healthy relaxation than of stirring adventure, and we older hands thought it unwise to quench their young ardor.

There was little wind, but the weather was fine, and it was hoped that with the sunset a breeze might come up that would float us down to Marblehead before midnight. While Brown was loosening the sails a propitiatory libation was offered to Neptune or his representative in those waters. All hands then fell to and set the mainsail and gaff-topsail, and got up the anchor. It was two hours yet until the turn of the tide, and with this to aid the sloop we might easily drop down past the islands, and the moon would light the night watches. But as evening drew on the light westerly air entirely died away, followed shortly after by signs of a fog from the bay.

Under the circumstances the sloop was headed toward Long Wharf, and anchored, amid a cluster of yachts and coasters, south of the main channel. About midnight, the night being very still and ghostly, and a heavy, dripping fog lying on the water, through which the moon and the nearer anchor-lights were barely visible, Benton was aroused by a steady thump, thump, thump. He recognized the sound at once. A large schooner, swinging with the tide, was bearing down on the sloop, threatening to carry away her main-boom. For Benton and Brown to rush from the cuddy in _vestibus naturalibus_, bestride the damp boom and jump into the boat and pull the stern of the sloop out of the way, was but the work of an instant. But, as everything was dripping with fog, the Spartan simplicity of the costume produced a chill which it was thought best to modify without delay by a searching prescription of rye.

The following day opened windless and foggy. In the middle of the forenoon the fog lifted and showed a sullen, ominous offing. By noon a breeze set in from the northeast.

“Let’s get up the mainsail,” said Benton.

“You ain’t agoin’ to sea to-day, be you?” asked Brown.

“Why not?”

“Don’t you see the wind’s dead ahead? We’ll have a dead beat of it down to Marblehead, and if it comes on to blow I guess we’ll get caught out and have to run for a lee, and the fog on the coast just as thick as mud.”

“Oh, I guess not. At any rate, there’s a breeze, and we’ll try it! We’ve got a chart and compass, and if it don’t blow harder than this we’re sure to fetch up inside of Marblehead Light before dark.”

Reaching down to Apple Island, through the main channel, the _Frolic_ fetched a tack up to Shirley Gut, a tortuous channel between Deer Island and Point Shirley, which is impassable except for small vessels. The tide was running out, while the long swell was rolling in. The two meeting on the bar made a mass of boiling foam that looked a great deal more savage than it was in reality, if met with a steady eye and a firm hand at the helm. The tacks here were short, and the _Frolic_, carrying a stiff weather helm, and buoyant as a duck, rapidly and gracefully shivered her sails. and fell off on the other tack every time, flinging the spray aft in sheets. But we were soon clear of this and riding on a green swell enveloped by a mizzling fog. Now and again a coaster suddenly loomed out of the mist and hailed the yacht to learn the bearings of the land. The bold red cliffs of Nahant and Egg Rock were successively passed. Ram Island, off Swampscott, and Roaring Bull, off Marblehead Neck, were gradually seen, or rather the cold white foam that beat against their faint coast line; then the cruel ledge called Tom Moore’s Reef, which the sloop passed with a rush, glad to be clear of such a dread foe under the lee beam. Soon after, Marblehead lighthouse was hailed with satisfaction, for the rising sea and strong gusts coming with growing frequency, made it desirable to reach a safe anchorage before nightfall, now rapidly approaching with the settled foreboding gloom of a gathering storm. Moll Pitcher, the presiding witch of those shores, was evidently brewing foul weather.

Rounding the Light, and easing off the mainsheet, the _Frolic_ flew down the little port and took a snug berth near the quarters of the Eastern Yacht Club. That night it blew great guns, and rained in torrents; but with both anchors down and plenty of scope, in one of the snuggest harbors in the world, we realized that there is nothing more cozy under such circumstances than the cuddy of a trim yacht, with a warm supper and a jolly game of whist.

The _Frolic_ was not much to boast of in the way of size or splendor, but she was comfortable, and that is the chief thing. She was thirty-two feet long over all, and twelve feet beam, and, of course, a keel boat. A centerboard box so reduces the space in the cabin of a small cruising yacht that it should be avoided. A small stove was placed in the forepeak, leaving a narrow transom for the sleeping quarters of the crew. The skipper and friends entirely occupied the main cabin, as it was called with a certain grim humor, where we had just five feet of head-room.