CHAPTER VI.

The finest trout-fishing in the world is to be obtained at Lake

Superior; although larger fish may be killed in the lakes and streams of

Maine, and greater numbers in the brooks of New Hampshire, Vermont, New

York, and Pennsylvania, nowhere is to be found the same abundance of

trout, averaging above two pounds, and wonderfully game and vigorous,

and nowhere a more beautiful region to explore or pleasanter waters to

fish over. The entire rocky shore of the lake, along both coasts, is one

extensive fishing-ground, where the skilful angler can at any point find

delightful sport; the innumerable tributaries, large and small, of the

British or American territory, unless shut out by precipitous falls, are

crowded with myriads of the speckled beauties; and the rapids at the

outlet furnish trout of the largest size.

The true mode of enjoying the sport is by camping out, when the

adventurous sportsman roams from point to point and river to river, from

camping-ground to camping-ground, at his own unrestrained will, varying

the sights and sounds of beauty that are ever present in the wilderness;

but excellent fishing can be had at numerous places, united with

comfortable accommodation. At the Sault St. Marie, at Marquette, at

Grand Island, and at Bayfield public-houses are to be found, and so

plentiful a supply of fine fish that the heart of man cannot fail to be

satisfied; but the finest sport is to be realized along the Canadian

shore, where camping-out is a necessity; for while on the southern coast

the trout average a pound, on the northern they will run fully two

pounds in weight.

To reach Lake Superior from the Eastern States the angler must either

take the steamers at Cleveland upon days advertised in the local papers,

or join them the next evening at Sarnia, by the Grand Trunk or Great

Western railroads of Canada. He will reach the Sault in three days from

Cleveland, and can save twenty-four hours in going by the way of Sarnia.

At the Sault he will find unequalled bait-fishing, and occasionally

excellent fly-fishing; but here, on account of the depth and strength of

the water, the bait will kill the largest trout. At this thoroughly

American village there is a well-kept hotel, the Chippewa House, and

nearly all the requisites for camp-life, except the tent.

A few miles below the Sault the Garden River affords good sport and

fair-sized trout, but is a difficult stream to ascend, while the first

promontory on the southern shore of the lake, called White Fish Point,

has long been famous as a fishing-station. At Marquette, which is a

regular stopping-place for the steamers that traverse the lake, the

waters are somewhat fished out; but about thirty miles to the eastward,

within an easy day’s sail, at Grand Island, there is splendid fishing,

magnificent scenery, and a passable boarding-house. Here are the famous

Pictured Rocks, ornamented with the fantastic hues of many-colored

sandstone, and worn by waves and storms into a thousand odd shapes and

strange resemblances, hollowed out into caverns, washed away into

pinnacles and spires, at one place representing a yacht under full sail,

at another a turreted castle of the olden time.

About sixty miles beyond Marquette are the Dead, the Yellow Dog, and

Salmon Trout rivers, which are apt to be encumbered with drift-wood and

underbrush, but which are filled with fish, and from one of which a

brook-trout of six and a half pounds was taken. The photograph of this

fish, or another of about the same size, is preserved at the Sault.

At Bayfield, the further terminus of the steamboat route, named after

the first American explorer and surveyor of this region, is the best of

fishing, united with good hotel life. In the neighborhood of this

village two hundred and fifty pounds weight of speckled trout have been

killed in one day by one good fisherman and one poor one; fish of two

and three pounds are common, and in the sheltered channels, between the

Apostle Islands, the namægoose are taken in unlimited quantities. The

Brulé River, and the many streams that empty into the lake in the

neighborhood, although often choked with drift, are filled with fine

trout.

On the north shore, amid the interminable forests that stretch in

primeval solitude to the northern sea, enlivened only with the voice of

the Peebiddy bird and one other melancholy warbler, beautified by a rare

sprinkling of native wild-flowers,

“In the kingdom of Wabasso,

In the land of the white rabbit,”

and along the Canadian shore of the lake, is the paradise of the

fly-fisher. Every river swarms, every bay is a reservoir of magnificent

fish that find their equals in size, courage, vigor, and beauty only in

the salt waters of New Brunswick and Lower Canada. The entire coast is

one long fishing-station, the rivers are stew-ponds, and the lake one

vast preserve; at every step the angler may cast his fly into some eddy

of the discolored stream or over some rocky shoal of the limpid lake

with a fair prospect of alluring from the depths a glorious embodiment

of piscatory power that shall struggle and fight, leaping from the

water, and making many fierce rushes for a good twenty minutes, till he

yields himself to the embrace of the net, exhibiting amid its brown

folds the glorious silver brilliancy of the loveliest inhabitant of the

liquid element. As he advances along the shore, an endless variety of

water and land, continuous changes of rock and tree, and dark,

bottomless depths or light gray shallows, present themselves to his eye;

at one moment he is clambering along the steep, rough side of a

precipice, whence he can scarcely toss his line a dozen paces, at the

next he is walking securely upon some flat rock whence the receding

hills permit him to cast to the utmost limit of his ability, or he may

ascend the nearest stream by the aid of his strong barge, or in the

light canoe, or else wading waist deep against the rushing current, and

there, overshadowed by the hills and shrouded amid the waving trees, he

can visit pool after pool, try eddy after eddy, till he and his men and

the boat are loaded, and satiety bids him rest.

Along the lake there is scarcely a choice of locality; from the sandy

beach at Point aux Pins to the outlet of the Pigeon River--the boundary

of two nationalities--at every point, in every cove, trout are to be

taken, and often in abundance; but probably the best as well as the most

accessible spots are Gros Cap and Mamainse. Of the rivers the most

famous is the Neepigon, where barrels of trout, averaging four pounds,

have been taken in one day; but the Batchawaung and the Agawa are nearly

as good, and within a more convenient distance, while the Harmony is

unequalled for wild and romantic scenery.

The fish of Lake Superior excel those of the other inland waters, either

in flavor or game qualities, and sometimes, as with trout, in both. The

lake-trout and white-fish bring a higher price in the Detroit markets

than those of Erie and Ontario, have a more brilliant color and firmer

flesh, and the trout infinitely surpass in appearance, strength, and

endurance the dull, logy productions of the Umbagog or Moosehead Lake.

On taking the fly and experiencing the astonishing disappointment, they

make one rush like their fellow-sufferers the salmon, and finding the

pain clings to them, they leap with the energy of grilse with wild

repetition, in the vain hope of shaking the tormenting barb from their

lips. Nor do they resign themselves after a feeble struggle, but retain

strength for many a rush when the ugly net is exhibited, often smashing

tackle, carrying off leaders, and breaking tips in the course of the

contest. Their colors are exquisitely delicate, their backs transparent

mottled green, their sides of pearly whiteness, marked with brilliant

carmine specks and faint blue spots, and their fins of the hue of

clouded cream. Their flesh is flaky and rich, seamed with curd, and

delicious to the hungry sportsman.

After having fished from Labrador to the Mississippi, and killed trout

in every State where trout are to be killed, I am satisfied that the

fishing of Lake Superior surpasses that of any other region on our

continent, and is, as a natural consequence, the best in the world.

There are several remarkable peculiarities of scenery, among which are

the pictured rocks and the sand dunes; and the sparkling lake, when

stirred by a gentle breeze, is beautiful in the effulgence of the

vertical summer sun; but the forests are gloomy and sombre, nearly

impenetrable on account of fallen trees, and in the lower lands grown up

with vast ferns, those evidences of the antiquity of our continent; so

that the sportsman is mainly confined to his canoe and the narrow strip

of lake shore between the beating waves and the impending hills. Beneath

his feet are the hard rocks, seamed with yellow veins of copper, or

wave-worn pebbles sparkling with a hundred varying colors, only less

beautiful than the glistening fish that the skilful angler entices from

the lake and lands among them. From this narrow strip he surveys the

broad expanse of the Big-Sea-Water, and dreams of the countless myriads

that rest in its liquid depths.

He travels with ease and comparative comfort; in the commodious barge he

stows the innumerable articles that fill the measure of a sportsman’s

luxuries, including among them a roomy tent, appetizing delicacies,

abundant clothes, and whatever else fancy dictates. With the barge,

which, although twenty-two feet long, is light and draws little water,

he ascends the larger streams; or he hires some passing Indian and his

birch canoe, that wonderful structure so beautifully and accurately

described by Hiawatha:

“Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-Tree,

Lay aside your white-skin wrapper,

For the summer-time is coming,

And the sun is warm in heaven,

And you need no white-skin wrapper.

Give me of your boughs, O Cedar,

Of your strong and pliant branches

My canoe to make more steady,

Make more strong and firm beneath me.

Give me of your roots, O Tamarack,

Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-Tree,

My canoe to bind together,

So to bind the ends together

That the water may not enter,

That the river may not wet me.

Give me of your balm, O Fir-Tree,

Of your balsam and your resin,

So to close the seams together

That the water may not enter,

That the river may not wet me.

Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog,

All your quills, O Kagh the hedgehog,

I will make a necklace of them,

Make a girdle for my beauty

And two stars to deck her bosom.

Thus the Birch Canoe was builded

In the valley by the river,

In the bosom of the forest,

And the forest’s life was in it,

All its mystery and its magic,

All the lightness of the birch-tree,

All the toughness of the cedar,

All the larch’s supple sinews;

And it floated on the river

Like a yellow leaf in Autumn,

Like a yellow water-lily.”

And in this thing of life and beauty the fisherman finds his way to the

head waters of the smallest brooks or crosses portages from one river to

another, feeling for the time the joys of independence and savage life.

The gaudy flies known as the Irish lake-flies, dressed on a small

salmon-hook of about No. 1½, are successful throughout the entire length

of the lake; but in the rivers a common brown or red hackle on the same

sized hook, dressed with silver tinsel, scarlet body, and very full,

long hackle, is decidedly the most killing, and in the lake answers full

as well as the more expensive articles. Very small flies are not

desirable, owing probably to the depth and occasional turbulence of the

water in the lake and its discoloration in the rivers, which prevent

their being perceived by the fish. Stout tackle and a heavy rod are

better than lighter gear, as no one wishes to waste time on small fish,

and the rises are so frequent that the angler will not become weary by

continued casting. A gaff is necessary for the Mackinaw salmon, and a

large landing-net for trout, but otherwise nothing is required different

from that which the sportsman would take in a day’s trip to the classic

haunts of Long Island.

As the region around Lake Superior is well towards the Arctic zone, the

weather is cool, and blankets, overcoats, and warm clothes are

necessary; but there will be frequently several successive days of

extreme heat, when the thermometer will rise to ninety in the shade. The

great drawback to this section of country, in fact to all our unopened

lands, is the immense number of mosquitoes, black-flies, and sand-flies.

These pests are found numerously everywhere in our woods, but nowhere

are they so plenty or combined so equally as along the shores of Lake

Superior. All day long the black-flies watch their chance to find a bare

spot of human flesh to sting and tear; immediately on the falling of the

shades of evening the almost invisible sand-flies, the “no see ’ems” of

the half-educated Indian, make their appearance in countless millions of

infinitesimal torture, and all night long the ceaseless hum of the

hungry mosquito drives sleep from the wearied sportsman’s eyelids. Veils

and ointments are, therefore, a prime necessity, without which a visit

to this section is an impossibility; and even with the best protections,

the warm days that give these insects unaccustomed activity are scarcely

tolerable. But in spite of these petty discomforts it is a noble lake,

beautiful in all its moods, silent and waveless in the warm sunshine,

rippled and sparkling in the gentle breeze, or lashed to anger by the

storm, when it rages along the shore and bursts in furious surf upon the

rocks. Nowhere else can trout-fishing be had in greater perfection and

more endless variety, nowhere else can the fisherman find purer sources

of enjoyment or finer opportunities to exercise his art, and nowhere

else can the lover of nature discover more to amuse or instruct him. It

lies in the heart of an almost unbroken wilderness, the largest lake in

the world, one huge spring of the coldest ice-water, and filled with

trout that the painter can scarce find colors to imitate, and that will

dwell in the angler’s memory for ever.

[Illustration]

MACKINAW SALMON.

_Namaycush--Salmo Amethystus._

Of all the varieties of _Salmonidæ_ that permanently inhabit the fresh

water, this fish, although utterly destitute of game qualities, is alone

entitled, on account of his great size and excellence upon the table, to

the honored name of Salmon, is found throughout the northern lakes,

being prevented by the impassable barrier of Niagara Falls from

descending to the sea, occasionally visits Lake Erie, but attains his

finest condition around the cold, clear depths of Lakes Huron and

Superior. He is named after one of his favorite localities, and reaches

the immense weight of nearly or quite one hundred pounds, and is the

grandest prize of the inland waters of our northern continent.

In color, the Mackinaw Salmon differs, as does the brook trout,

according to the peculiarities of his habitat, whether rocky or muddy

shoals, or deep open water; and to such a degree that, according to

Professor Agassiz, he is known to the Canadian Voyageurs under different

names, and individual specimens are frequently considered half-breeds or

a cross between this species and the Siskawitz. Among the aborigines he

is distinguished by the appellation which is usually spelled namaycush,

although it is pronounced namægoose, and has the accent strongly on the

second syllable, and is never by them confounded with any other variety

of lake trout. The fish of Lake Superior are of stronger colors; are

darker on the back; have redder flesh, and are universally preferred

gastronomically to those of other localities.

In Spring and early Summer, they appear to leave the deep water, and

seeking the rocky shallows, feed voraciously upon the numerous small fry

furnished in abundance by our western lakes. Throughout May, June, July,

and August, they can be captured in abundance with the trolling spoon,

trailed after a boat propelled by oars or a gentle breeze, but are

rarely taken of over twelve pounds weight. At such times they are

excellent eating; their flesh being rich, firm, and closely approaching

in color that of their congener, the famous _Salmo Salar_, and they are

delicious simply boiled or made into the basis of a chowder.

Unfortunately, although they bite voraciously, they give no play

whatever, allowing themselves to be drawn in without resistance, and

there is no fish approaching them in size which is so utterly devoid of

game qualities. At times they seem even to swim gently forward as though

they preferred coming towards the boat, till the fisherman is uncertain

whether they are still on; and although at the last moment they make a

few flounces, their apparent weakness for a fish so powerfully formed,

is astonishing. To be sure if a man had a hook in his mouth he would

follow the slightest pull; but we do not expect such conduct from a

fish, especially from one endowed with the graceful and vigorous shape

of the Mackinaw Salmon.

They take any of the trolling spoons, appearing, however, to prefer the

old style, copied from the bowl of a spoon, but rather elongated, to the

expensive and fanciful modern improvements. Those sold at the Sault St.

Marie are from five to six inches long and made of tin; but a better

bait will be found in the mother-of-pearl imitation fish. To insure

success, the weather should be moderate, either calm or with a gentle

breeze rippling the surface of the water, for the reason that in the

open lake a strong wind will cause so heavy a swell that the fish cannot

see the bait, and the oarsmen cannot control the boat. They are not shy;

but as the water is frequently deep, although wonderfully clear, the

difficulty is to attract their attention. For this purpose sufficient

line must be used to sink the bait slightly beneath the surface, and the

boat must not move too rapidly.

They are captured in all the bays and indentations of Lakes Huron and

Superior, where the bottom is rocky and the water not over one hundred

feet deep. In Lake Superior they are abundant; in Goulais’ Bay, at

Michipicotten Island, in the vicinity of Bayfield, and almost everywhere

else.

Late in the fall they retire to the sombre depths, and are only taken by

still fishing with a long line and live bait, and at such times the deep

water abreast of Gros Cap is one of their favorite localities, and they

are there frequently caught by the Indians of from fifty to seventy-five

pounds. They are salted and smoked by the inhabitants for winter use,

but like the speckled trout are too dry for that purpose, and should

never be killed by the sportsman except as an article of immediate

consumption. They are usually distinguished among Americans as the

Mackinaw Salmon, although that universal and totally undescriptive name

Lake trout is occasionally applied to them, and are called by the

Canadian voyagers _truites du lac_.

The gums of this fish are of a purple tinge, and from this peculiarity,

which is by no means invariable, is derived their scientific name. The

scales are small and the lateral line is nearly straight. The under gill

cover is large and grooved; while there are many teeth, the prominent

ones being very sharp and much curved, and the tongue has a row on each

side.

The fin rays are:--D. 14, P. 15, V. 9, A. 12, C. 19 6/6.

The tail is narrow at the root, and spreads broad toward the extremity.

The color on the back is deep sea green, spotted with green and yellow

spots; on the sides it is purple, with lilac spots, and on the belly

pure white. The tail is dark and beautifully spotted the whole length.

It is, altogether, a remarkably handsome and graceful fish.

The spawning season is October, and the operation is performed in the

shallows near shore, at which time the fish are mercilessly speared by

the natives.

LAKE TROUT.

_Salmon Trout--Salmo Confinis_.

This variety of the non-migratory _Salmonidæ_, although somewhat similar

in general appearance to the foregoing species, does not attain the same

gigantic size. It is found numerously throughout the middle and Eastern

States, as well as in the great Northern lakes, but bears a vastly

inferior rank in the estimation both of the epicurean and the sportsman.

Its gastronomic appreciation, I believe, however, is much influenced by

the period of the year in which it is taken. Early in the season it is

rich, firm, and of fine flavor, the flesh being of a light orange, and

breaking into beautiful flakes. At such times it is unquestionably

excellent. In Summer it is admirable as the foundation for a chowder,

having some of the peculiarities in a higher development of the cod; and

serving as a pleasant change from the ordinary boil or fry of the common

trout. It is also quite eatable if cut into steaks and broiled.

Its scientific description is as follows:--The scales are minutely

striate; the lateral line is slightly curved near the head; the tongue

has large teeth along the central furrow; there are many acute teeth on

the palatines and vomer; the tail has a sinuous margin; the bases of the

vertical fins are spotted, and the flesh is coarse.

The fin rays are:--D. 14, P. 14, V. 9, A. 12, C. 21 3/3.

In color it is blackish or bluish-black, with numerous pale spots. It is

taken with trolling tackle, but rarely or never with the fly. The

spawning season is October, when it seeks the shallow water for that

purpose.

[Illustration]

THE SISKAWITZ.

_Salmo Siscowet._

This species has a dentition very similar to the _Salmo Amethystus_, but

not quite so robust. The upper and lower maxillaries and

intermaxillaries, and each of the palatines, have a row of teeth. The

vomer one and the tongue two rows, beside the acute teeth. The tail is

less furcate, and the dorsal fin is larger than in the Mackinaw Salmon.

The flesh is rich and of fine flavor, but almost too fat.

The fin rays are:--D. 12, P. 14, A. 12, 14, V. 9, C. 30.

This fish is shorter and stouter, and not so distinctly spotted as the

Mackinaw Salmon; it is altogether less handsome, but has similar habits,

and bites readily at the trolling spoon. It was first described by

Professor Agassiz, not many years ago, during his tour of Lake Superior,

but has always been distinguished by the Indians and Voyageurs, and

known among them under its distinctive appellation.

The Siskawitz inhabits the upper portion of Lake Superior, and never

descends towards the outlet, and is taken in the neighborhood of Isle

Royale in abundance. It is said also to be found in some of our other

lakes, but is very rare.

STRIPED BASS.

_Rock-fish--Librax Lineatus._

These glorious fish, the delight of the angler’s heart, the bravest and

strongest except the salmon, the largest without exception of the finny

tribe that the sportsman pursues, frequent every cove and bay of our

northern Atlantic coast, and furnish the main attraction of salt-water

fishing.

Their mode of capture differs according to the locality; from the

rock-bound coast of the Eastern States the adventurous angler, perched

upon some projecting rock, casts the simple bait into the crested wave,

amid the thundering surf of the stormy sea; along the sandy shores and

in the tranquil inlets of the Middle States, gut snells, sinker and

float come into play in the rapid tide ways; and among the numerous

lagoons and bays of the Southern States the clumsy but effective

hand-line is employed.

To the eastward, menhaden and lobster are the favorite baits; in

Pennsylvania and New York shrimp, crab, and squid; and in the Southern

States killeys, herrings, and other small fish. The artificial baits are

the eel-skin, imitation squid, and gaudy bass-fly. The eel-skin used

mainly along New England shores is attached to a hand-line, and cast

into and drawn rapidly through the boiling surf of the ocean; the squid

is towed with trolling tackle behind the sail or row boat, in the quiet

waters of the Middle States; while the fly is used with stout rod and

long line wherever the fresh current of some river haunted by fish falls

directly into the salt water of the sea.

For casting with the menhaden from the rocks, New London harbor, Point

Judith, West Island near Newport, Montauk Point, and Newport Island

itself, are favorite localities; while the Little Falls of the Potomac

at the Chain Bridge, near Washington, where the green waters dash over

the sunken rocks and eddy round the cliffs that rise perpendicular from

the river’s brink, furnish the finest fly fishing for bass in the world.

For bait-casting the necessary implements are a large reel, running on

steel pivots, two hundred yards of flax line attached to a 7° hook with

a round head, and a rod of not over nine feet in length, with a large

agate funnel top. With such tools experienced fishermen can cast a slice

cut from the side of a menhaden, and weighing about three ounces, two

hundred, aye, nearly three hundred feet into the curling breakers of the

Atlantic ocean, and kill bass that will pull down the scales at fifty,

sixty, and seventy pounds.

A mode of preparing a bass line to render it light and water-proof,

without weakening it, is recommended by excellent authority, and is

simply to soak it for one night in fish oil which does not rot linen, to

hang it up to drain the following day, and to place it in mahogany

sawdust to dry. When thus prepared it does not soak water, nor even

sink.

Fly-fishing for bass, however, is the perfection of the sport, and

infinitely surpasses in excitement all other modes of killing these

noble fish. The best season on the Potomac is in July or August, and the

favorite hours the early morning or the twilight of the evening. The

ignorant and debased natives who inhabit the romantic region of hill and

valley in the neighborhood of Tenally Town, about five miles northwest

of Washington, and who, dead to the beauties that nature has lavished

around them, and utterly unacquainted with scientific angling, look

merely to their two cents per pound for striped bass, manufacture a fly

by winding red or yellow flannel round the shank of a large hook, adding

sometimes a few white feathers. They substitute for rod a young cedar

sapling, denuded of bark and seasoned by age, and attaching to the upper

end a stout cord, fish with the large flannel swathed hook in the rapids

and below the falls of the Potomac, at the old chain bridge, and without

a reel, kill bass of twenty or thirty pounds.

No spot can be imagined more wild and romantic, and with proper tackle,

the reel, the lithe salmon rod, and the artistic fly--no sport can be

more exciting. The roar of the angry flood, the bare precipices topped

with foliage on the opposite bank, the flat dry bed of the stream where

it flows during the heavy freshets, but at other seasons a mass of bare

jagged rocks, and the dashing spray of the broken current lend a charm

to the scene. While the fish, rendered doubly powerful by the force of

the stream, and aided by the numerous rocks and falls, have every chance

to escape.

The bass pursue the silvery herring, which is the principal natural

bait, and ascend the Little Falls of the Potomac during the summer

months in vast numbers. They are captured in such quantities with the

net in the salt water and with hook and line in the rapids, as to be

almost a drug in the market.

As the season advances, the native crawls upon some rock that reaches

out into the stream, and with his coarse but elastic cedar pole, casts

the roll of flannel, wrapped round a hook and misnamed a fly, into the

seething current; and when the brave fish seizes the clumsy allurement

the fisherman contends for the mastery as best he may, occasionally at

the risk of a ducking in the stream consequent upon the sudden breaking

of his tackle, and accompanied with considerable risk. When a man has

but a slight foothold upon the slippery surface of a shelving ledge, and

has attached to the end of his rod a vigorous fish of twenty pounds, he

is apt to fall if the line parts unexpectedly. Many are the tales of

such accidents, and now and then of fatal results. But with proper

tackle, the scientific angler is master of the situation; he can reach

any part of the current, casting into the eddies at the base of the

precipitous cliffs opposite; he can yield to the rush of the prey; can

retire, paying out line, to surer footing, and can follow the fish

along the shore; and finally, having subdued his spirit and broken his

strength, can lead the prize, gleaming through the transparent water

with the sun’s rays reflected in rainbow colors from his scales, into

some quiet nook where he can gaff him with safety. Such is fly-fishing

for striped bass amid the most lovely scenery, gorgeous in its summer

dress of green and alternating hill and valley, dotted with pretty farms

and smiling grain-fields; and there is but little sport that can surpass

it.

Bass are also taken at the Grand Falls, ten miles further up the river;

but the Little Falls are their favorite locality, as they are here just

passing from the salt tide into the pure, sparkling, broken fresh-water.

They frequently weigh twenty pounds, and occasionally much more; but, of

course, the main run is smaller, and the number killed in lucky days is

prodigious, being counted by hundreds.

Bass are said to be taken with the fly in other rivers of the Southern

States, and also to a certain degree in those of the north. At the

mouths of narrow inlets, where the tide is rapid and diluted with

fresh-water, a gaudy red and white fly with a full body, kept on the

surface by the force of the current and not cast as in fly-fishing, will

occasionally beguile them; but generally speaking, bass are not fished

for with the fly north of the Potomac.

Although the artistic angler naturally despises the miserable flannel

abortion manufactured by the stupid boors of Tenally Town, it will often

be found as good a lure as though composed of the rarest materials; in

fact the bass exhibit none of that daintiness of choice that is

universal with salmon. So long as the fly is large and showy they seem

to be satisfied, and their immense mouths can readily grasp a No. 7

hook, such as the natives occasionally use. One of half that size is

abundantly large, however, and the clearer the water the finer should be

the tackle. The rod, reel, and line are those appropriate to salmon

fishing, although the line, if it is wet by salt-water, should be

afterwards rinsed in fresh to prevent rotting. Some fishermen fasten a

float above the fly, and paying out line let it run down stream into

distant eddies; but this is not so orthodox a mode of proceeding, and

does not require equal skill nor as delicate tackle.

After a fish is struck, the same care has to be exercised if he is heavy

that is necessary with the salmon, and he will often compel the angler

to follow him a long distance ere the gaff terminates the struggle. Bass

make very determined but not such rapid runs as their fellow-denizen of

the flood, the _salmo salar_, but rarely retain that reserved force

which makes his last dash so often fatal; nevertheless they are resolute

and powerful, and have to be handled with care.

Another mode of taking bass, which is strongly recommended, even for the

open bays of the north, by one of our best fishermen, but which I have

only tried in the narrow coves, inlets, and streams, where the tide-way

can be covered by a good cast, is to use the salmon rod, line, and

reel, but to substitute a shrimp for the fly. The casting is then done

in the ordinary manner, and the gentleman referred to claims, that it is

by far the most killing mode. If even equally successful, it is

certainly far preferable to the use of the float and sinker, or to the

dull monotony of bottom fishing. Any sport that brings into active play

the faculties of body or mind, and which demands practice and

experience, surpasses the one that requires the merely passive quality

of patience.

The most successful, and excepting perhaps fly-fishing, the most skilful

method of taking the striped beauties of the northern coasts, is with

the menhaden bait, cast into the boiling surf of the ocean, or the

larger bays; and this sport is universally enjoyed along the iron-bound

shore of New England, from New London to Eastport. This entire reach, is

one mass of rock, indented by innumerable bays, or severed by inlets

into barren islands, where the tide rushes, and the surf beats; and in

every favorable locality are the bass taken with a stout rod, a long

line, and menhaden bait. From almost every bold rock, or prominent

island, can the angler cast into the vexed water of some current, made

by the huge waves rushing over the uneven bottom, and allure thence the

fierce bass, who has been attracted from the ocean depths, to feed on

the small fry that hide in the clefts and crevices; and waiting with

fins often visible above the tide, to pounce upon his prey, mistakes for

it the angler’s bait, and after a brave struggle surrenders to human

ingenuity.

Although the true fisherman may pursue the small fish of the Delaware or

Hudson, of New York Bay or the Sound, may patiently bide their time at

Hackensac or Pelham bridges, McComb’s dam or the hedges; and may have

true pleasure in capturing them with dancing float and shrimp, or

running sinker, and shedder crab; if he can spare a week or two, he

should cut adrift from the noise and turmoil, foul stenches, and fouler

deeds of the city; and hastening to Newport or Point Judith, enjoy the

noblest sport of the salt water--bass-fishing with menhaden bait. He

will need stout nerves, strong muscles, good tackle, and abundant skill;

for he will be called upon to cast with the utmost of his power, perhaps

a hundred yards, and to strike and land fish that may weigh half a

hundred pounds. He will be exposed to the sea-breeze, or it may be the

storm wind at early day-light, and the spray from the salt waves, and

wet and cold will be his portion; but he will forget these trivial

evils, when he strikes the bass of forty, fifty, or sixty pounds, the

fish that he has been living for, and when he lands him safely on the

slippery rocks.

Fishermen of character have been known to assert, that they could cast

with the rod, the ordinary menhaden bait, one hundred and twenty yards;

and although from a high stand, with the aid of a strong wind, this is

possible, the ordinary cast is not over half that distance, and to

exceed one hundred when standing on a level with the water is rare

indeed. In fact, seventy-five yards is a good cast, and no man need be

ashamed who can put out his line fair and true that distance. Rather

better can be done with the hand-line than with the rod, but with far

greater fatigue, and a painful over-exertion of the muscles of the arm

that is almost unendurable to one who has not steady practice. The

length of cast is in a measure controlled by the direction and violence

of the wind and the elevation of the stand above the water; in a

contrary wind the best angler will find it difficult to reach

seventy-five yards, while from a high rock, with a favorable wind, he

will cover that distance with ease.

The use of the hand line is neither artistic nor adapted to gentlemen

who fish for pleasure, although more killing probably than the rival

method. For rod fishing, the best tackle and implements are necessary;

the rod must be short and stout, the finest being made of cane at a

fabulous expense; the reel should have steel pins or run on agate, be

made large and perfectly true, and the line must be from two hundred to

three hundred yards long. Cane rods are preferred on account of their

lightness and elasticity, but they are at present almost unattainable at

any price, and the ordinary ones will answer well, although after

several hundred casts weight will be found to tell on unaccustomed

muscles. The objection to jewelled reels is, that a fall or blow may

render them useless, while they run but little smoother than those with

steel pins. The reel and guides must be large to deliver the line

freely, and if the line is seen to bag during the cast between the

guides, it is a sure sign that they are too small. The line is of

twisted grass or raw silk, which is the best but most expensive and

delicate; of plaited silk, which is the strongest; or of linen, which is

cheap and common, but as they are all easily rotted, is the one in

general use. The grass line, if it overruns and whips against the bars

of the reel, is sure to cut, but it delivers beautifully; the silk line

soon becomes water-logged and sticky; and the linen one combines these

defects with a faculty of swelling when wet peculiarly its own. A

perfect bass-line is a desideratum not yet supplied. The American reels

and cane rods are perfection, but the lines are a cause of reproach and

vexation of spirit.

Casting the menhaden bait is similar to casting the float and sinker,

only the power is enormously increased and deficiencies proportionally

magnified. The line is wound up till the bait, if a single one, is

almost two feet from the tip, the rod is extended behind the fisherman,

who turns his body for the purpose, and then brought forward with a

steady but vigorous swing that discharges it without a jerk, like an

apple thrown from a stick by rustic youths. The reel is so far

restrained by pressure of the thumb that it revolves no faster than the

bait travels, but does not in the least detain it, and upon the accuracy

of this manipulation mainly depends the result. If too much pressure is

used, the line cannot escape rapidly enough and falls short; if too

little, the reel overruns and entangles the line, stopping the cast ere

half delivered with a jerk that threatens its destruction. The fisherman

must be able to use either hand on the reel to rest his arms and to take

advantage of the wind.

If he is an adept he will drive the greasy bait straight and true

directly to the desired spot, and if the weather is favorable and the

fates propitious, he will bring up some scaly monster of twenty-five or

mayhap thirty pounds, who will start seaward with bait, and hook, and

line, and only be persuaded, after many efforts and determined rushes,

that it is in vain. The strong ocean breeze will play with his hair and

the salt spume wet his cheek; the vessels, like floating marine

monsters, will drift across the waste of waters before him, the seagulls

will hover round uttering their harsh cry, and he will cast and cast

till arms and legs are weary, and he may kill in a single day a thousand

weight of fish. The fresh air will give such a tone to his system, and

the exercise such strength to his muscles, and the excitement such vigor

to his nerves, that he will hardly believe himself the same relaxed,

despondent, listless individual that left the city a week previous.

The most famous localities for the sport are West Island and Point

Judith; the former is reached by the way of New London, and the latter

by the Connecticut shore line of railway to Kingston. West Island has

lately been purchased by a club of gentlemen, but will not probably be

reserved exclusively for their use, as the neighboring islands being

free to all no special privileges could be secured. There is often

great difficulty in obtaining bait, particularly during a storm, which

is the time that it is most needed, as the fish bite best in rough

weather, and on going from the cities it is well to pack a few hundred

menhaden in a box with ice and sawdust, and thus insure a supply for

some days ahead.

[Illustration: VAIL’S.]

POINT JUDITH.

It is a long, weary, and dusty ride by the way of the New Haven and

Shore Line Railroads to Kingston; but if, at the end of the journey, a

pretty little widow, with hazel eyes, is found waiting to drive over to

the South Pier in the stage, and you are the only other passenger, you

will probably consider yourself repaid for all annoyances.

It is seven miles from Kingston to the South Pier, the driver may happen

to be a little tight, very sleepy, and wholly unobservant of what is

passing in the back of his vehicle. Moonlight is either reflected with

great brilliancy from hazel eyes, or else hazel eyes originate a

brilliancy akin to moonlight, and certainly moonlight, hazel eyes, white

teeth, rosy lips, soft hands, and a slender waist, are very bewitching

in a close carriage of a moonlight night, with a preoccupied driver.

Some women have a smile like sunshine, and their laugh rings like a

chime of bells; and if you happen to be riding alone with a pretty

widow, and something suggests love-making, and her merry laughter slowly

dies away into a gentle smile, and the smile fades into a look of

sympathetic feeling, that you have to draw very near to see, till you

feel her palpitating breath upon your cheek, and her hand trembles when

by the merest accident you touch it, and the ride occupies an hour or

more, you may, before the South Pier is reached, almost forget that you

are married.

If this fortune befalls you at the station, you will probably fail to

notice the beauty of Kingston village and Peace Dale as you pass through

them, and will find the subsequent lonely ride from South Pier to Point

Judith dull and dreary. Some two miles from the Pier is a house kept by

John Anthony, the son of Peleg, where sportsmen most do congregate, and

where all their reasonable wants, except the wherewithal to quench their

thirst, can be supplied, and which is situated within a few steps of the

best fishing stations. John Anthony is a Yankee born and bred, honest,

faithful, willing, and acquainted with all the habits, devices, and

iniquities of bass and blue fish. He will tell you that in May, when the

grass plover have their long note, and are heard far up in the air

travelling northward, bass are to be caught with the eel-skin; that in

June, when high blackberries are in bloom, they begin to take lobster

bait; but from July 1st, and all through the fall, they take menhaden,

otherwise called bony fish or moss-bunker, the bait that the true and

skilful sportsman loves to cast.

In July and August, the largest fish, occasionally bass of fifty and

even sixty pounds, rejoice the heart of the angler by surrendering to

his skill, while in the Fall, although more numerous, they are smaller.

In both these particulars, the fishing at Point Judith and West Island,

and further northward, differs from that in the vicinity of New York.

Great success, however, depends upon several contingencies. It is

supposed that the Gulf Stream, that prolonged current of the Mississippi

River, which sweeps with its warmer temperature through mid ocean

carrying a genial atmosphere and fertilizing showers to the otherwise

arid shores of France and England, changes its course yearly,

approaching our coast and sending its swarms of living creatures among

the rocks of Narragansett Bay, or withdrawing so as to leave us desolate

and to increase the severity of our winters. We all know that our cold

seasons differ greatly in intensity, and bass fishermen know that

success in fishing varies equally; but from what cause these results

flow, no one can positively say.

After a heavy storm has darkened the water by washing impurities from

the shore, and at spots where the dashing breakers fill the sea with

foam, the bass bite most fearlessly. Every crested wave rising against

the horizon ere it breaks, flashes with their sparkling scales, and so

sure as the bait cast from the powerful two-handed rod reaches that

wave, so sure is it to be grasped by the nearest bass. The breakers

drive the spearing and other small fry from their hiding-places among

the rocks; the discolored water blinds them to their danger, and bass

trusting themselves in the very curl of the heaving swell collect in

myriads to the welcome banquet. But as the discoloration misleads the

spearing so it also conceals from the bass the line attached to the

treacherous bait, and the latter, while pursuing remorselessly his prey,

becomes himself a victim.

Neither shrimp nor soft crabs are used in this style of fishing, and the

earliest bait, the eel-skin, is prepared by stripping the skin off the

tail of an eel from the vent aft to the length of about a foot, leaving

it inside out, and drawing it over a couple of hooks so placed on the

line that one shall project near the upper and the other near the tail

end. A sinker of the size of one’s little finger is inserted at the

head, and the bait is cast by hand and drawn rapidly. The rod is not

often used in this style of fishing, as the heavy bait is apt to sink

ere it can be reeled in. The skin is frequently salted to increase its

firmness, and when used must be kept in continual motion, to the great

fatigue of the enthusiastic angler.

The menhaden bait is prepared by scaling it and then cutting a slice on

one side from near the head to the base of the tail, passing the hook

through from the scaly side, and back through both edges, so that the

shank is enveloped and the flesh is outwards, and then tying the bait

firmly with a small piece of twine that is attached to the hook for that

purpose. A menhaden or bony fish furnishes two baits, and the residue,

except the back bone, tail, and head, is cut up fine, called chum, and

thrown into the water to make a slick. A slick is the oil of the

menhaden floating over the waves, and extended frequently by tide or

current a long distance, attracts the bass, by suggesting to them that

their prey is near at hand.

Where the water is clear it is customary in rod-fishing, which is the

only scientific mode, to use two hooks; the smaller, some two feet below

the other is attached to a fine line or gut leader, and denominated

without any apparent reason the fly-hook. Many of the best fishermen

never use more than one bait, and where the fish are large and plenty,

one is sufficient. The fly bait is not generally tied on, but twisted

round the hook in a manner difficult to describe.

Lobster bait is deficient in tenacity, and has to be tied on like

menhaden, and probably the natural squid would be an effective and

manageable bait, could it be provided in sufficient quantities. Limerick

hooks, except those manufactured expressly for the purpose with a round

head, are in great disfavor, having a bad reputation for strength, and a

stout but small cod hook is usually preferred. With skill, however, and

plenty of line, the fisherman is more to blame than the steel, for the

breaking of the latter. The best hook is now manufactured with a round

head and is fastened to the line with two half hitches, the end again

hitched above them so as to take the friction; and as it is carried off

by the first blue-fish, or in the Yankee vernacular horse mackerel, that

takes a fancy to it, the angler must be well supplied.

The Bait, especially a single one, is light, but experienced hands claim

to be able to cast it more than a hundred yards, a feat that the tyro

will scarcely credit; but ordinarily half that distance is all that is

requisite. The line should not be less than six hundred and may be a

thousand feet long, and if of flax should not be over fifteen strands.

The rod, reel, and line, must be of the very best, and the guides and

funnel top large, or the angler will fail to do himself justice, and

will probably lose his largest fish.

The friction is so great in casting, that the thumb must be protected by

a thumb-stall or cot, as the natives call it, or better yet, one for

each thumb, so that you can cast from either side, and snub the fish

with either hand. They are made of chamois leather, India-rubber, or

some equivalent material; and in casting by hand, a similar protection

is required for the forefinger. A shoemaker’s knife is admirably adapted

to cutting bait.

If, then, familiar with these things, you shall have chosen a favorable

time during or at the close of a south-easterly storm, and at break of

day, accompanied by John Anthony, shall have posted yourself upon Bog

rock, or the Quohog, which is New England and Indian for hard clam, or

upon the famous Scarborough, that great station in a heavy north-easter,

you may anticipate brave sport. The waves will come rolling in,

streaming out in the wind like a courser’s mane, with snowy crest, and

breaking with thundering roar they will sink back seething with foam. As

the tide rises a few drops will fall pattering upon your feet; shortly

the waves will leap up to your knees, then plunge into your pockets,

reach to your waist, pour down your neck, and if you are not on the

watch will lift you in their embrace and fling you torn and wounded down

among the sharp-pointed rocks. You must wear water-proof clothes, and

while you keep your eye on the line you must not neglect the inrolling

swell, but avoid or brace yourself to meet its shock. And when the bass

seizes your bait, and you have fixed the hook by one sharp blow, you

must be gentle and moderate, only using severe measures where they are

absolutely necessary. If the blue-fish comes, and he does not carry away

your hook at the first snatch, reel him in as quickly as his indomitable

pluck and vigor will permit. He is not game when you are bass-fishing.

If the ungainly flounder, exhibiting unexpected activity, shall chase

and grasp your bait, lug him out by main force, treating him, though

excellent to eat, like the vulgar commoner he is.

When the day is advanced, and the game has grown wary, you may rest; and

looking out to sea, perchance behold the blue-fish chase the menhaden

and the porpoise devour the blue-fish, and the thresher shark plough his

way through schools of lesser creatures, killing with blows of his

powerful tail, and then devouring his prey at his leisure. You may

listen to the “wild waves singing,” and watch the continual change of

the sky and water, enjoying the refreshing breeze and pure air, or amuse

yourself by throwing in the head of a menhaden, and noting how quickly

the bass that refuse your bait will strike with a great whirl at the

floating object.

Two fishermen engaged with their sport were once standing upon a rock

together, when one struck a very large fish supposed to weigh over

seventy pounds. The sea was high and wild, and made it difficult to gaff

the fish, after a wearying struggle had reduced him to submission. A

favorable opportunity was watched when three heavy rollers had passed,

covering the rock with spray, and the other fisherman darted to the edge

of the surf to make the attempt. Unfortunately the bass, not being quite

exhausted, made a short run that delayed the operation, till a gigantic

wave, rolling in unheeded, caught the preoccupied fishermen unawares,

engulfed them in its green waters, flung one down bruised and sore, and

carried off the other who held the gaff, and was nearer the brink, into

the deep water beyond. Poor fellow, he could not swim, and the terror of

approaching death passed across his features as he looked up

beseechingly and tried to cling to the steep and slippery rocks. The

waves tossed him about like a plaything, bringing him close to the

rocks, dragging him away, and then cruelly hurling him against them. His

friend was powerless to save him; but having a stout line, and the fish

now floating exhausted upon the surface, shouted to the drowning man to

catch the line and support himself by it. This was accomplished, and

amid the dashing surf, alone with the shadow of death upon the water,

the skilful fisherman, working his way carefully among the rocks, giving

to the strain of the surging sea, but gaining every inch of line the

strength of his tackle would permit, led the man and the fish, floating

side by side, into a cove that was in a measure sheltered from the fury

of the waves.

Slowly the line came in; the man lived, and still clung to it, and

although occasionally submerged, managed to sustain himself

sufficiently. Nearer and nearer he came, quite close even to the

shelving rocks, and twice during a lull could have climbed them in

safety, had not his strength been too greatly exhausted. He made a

feeble effort, still clinging, however, to the line, but was carried

back by the receding current, and it became apparent his life depended

upon his friend’s ability to help him.

This was no easy matter; the strain upon the line was excessive, the

rocks were wet and slippery, and the sea frequently swept across with

resistless force. Shortening the line as much as possible, the friend

crept down towards the edge, and taking advantage of the first lull,

called to the drowning man to cling fast with his hands for a moment,

and rushed down to seize him. The instant, however, the line was

relaxed, the water carried away its feeble victim, who was quickly

beyond reach. Ere he could be brought back a tremendous wave, resolute

to devour its prey, came thundering in; it rose above points that had

projected many feet out of water, it dashed in flying spray high up upon

those that it could not overwhelm, its crest gleamed and hissed, and

with one mad leap it sprang over the intervening ledges and threw itself

upon the fishermen with fearful power. The one upon the rocks was

beaten down, and only by falling in a crevice and holding fast with all

his strength was saved from being carried off. When the wave passed he

struggled to his feet and looked down into the deep water for his

friend. The line was broken, and man and fish were swept away together.

Danger never deterred a sportsman, but rather seems to enhance his

enjoyment; and there is just sufficient risk and enough cold water to

make fishing from the rocks a pleasurable excitement. The fiercer the

storm and the wilder the water the better the fishing, and the peril is

more than counter-balanced by the sport. Occasionally, at these times, a

fisherman will be lost, but more frequently he will capture the gigantic

fish that has been the ambition of his life; and if he does perish it is

in a good cause, and he has the sympathies of all his ardent brothers of

the angle.

Bass, like other fish, do not feed in a thunder shower, but during the

latter part of a north-easterly or south-easterly storm, and immediately

after when the wind has hauled to the westward and made casting easier,

they are taken in the greatest quantities. In fact it is hardly worth

while to fish for them at any other time.

At Point Judith there are some bay snipe and plover after the fifteenth

of August, and the quail shooting which begins on the twentieth of

September is quite good. Blue-fish or horse-mackerel are not pursued for

sport, but rather pursue the angler, taking off his hooks and cutting

his line with their sharp teeth most unmercifully. In fact a story is

told of one that deliberately bit through the line above a large bass

that had been hooked, and apparently released him designedly, from fishy

friendship.

That excellent but neglected fish the porgee, which the inhabitants call

a scup, is plentiful, and also the tautog or black fish; and the

bergall, which they denominate chogset or cunner, a worthless fish, is

so abundant as to try the fisherman’s temper by continually devouring

his baits.

When the sea has subsided and the fishing is over, and you have as many

fish as you want nicely packed in ice, you will have to drive over to

the depôt behind the laziest horse, unless Anthony buys a new one, that

it was ever your misfortune to ride after. The boyish driver, however,

enterprising like his father, will poke and whip and utter that peculiar

word comprehensible only to horse-flesh, “tschk,” and if the animal does

not absolutely lie down in the ditch you will make the seven miles in

about two hours and a half, and be thankful that you have done so well;

having reached home, what stories you will tell of the large fish you

captured and enormous ones you lost, of the dangers you ran and how

beautifully you cast, and your friends that receive of the game will

believe in you.

THE SOUTH BAY.

One cloudless day in the fervid month of July, a handsome, bright-eyed

youth of something over twenty summers, opened the gate of the little

yard in front of Deacon Goodlow’s house and strode with an elastic step

towards the side door. He was evidently at home and felt no need of

ceremony, for without pausing to knock he turned the knob and entered.

The deacon’s house was one of those innumerable romantic little white

cottages with wings added after the main structure, that dot the flat

surface of Long Island, or Mattowacs, as the poetical Indians once

elegantly named the wonderful sand-bar; it was hidden in trees and

almost covered with vines, and had an air of superiority and taste

somewhat unusual.

“Well, Katy,” said Harry, addressing a sprightly, rosy-cheeked maiden

that he encountered inside, busy at some pottering woman’s work; “what

do you think, now? Your father and mine are going fishing to-day. I left

them talking it over, and arranging that they were to drive over in your

father’s buggy, as our solitary horse is needed for other purpose.”

“I am glad of it, Harry; Mr. Hartley takes too little recreation, and

father does so like a day on the Bay. He was speaking about it only

yesterday.”

“But how odd that they should go alone; I wonder why your father does

not take you, you like the Bay almost as well as he does.”

“Pretty nearly,” she replied with a laugh; “I love the breeze and the

water, especially when we run outside and plunge into the monstrous

waves of the ocean. It seems so fresh, and limitless, and powerful.”

“Yes, and you like to pull out the blue-fish; it is not all poetry, for

to tell the truth, I have always felt convinced from your way of looking

at them, that every time you caught a fish you thought of the pot and

fancied how nice he would be on table.”

“Take care, sir, or the next time we go I will leave you to your own

devices in the way of cooking. Do you remember when I found you trying

to cook a big blue-fish on a long stick, over a huge hot fire, without

any salt or butter?”

“But the old folks will be sure to fall out over politics or polemics,

and come home in a dudgeon, as they have been near doing before this,

your father is so fiery; I hope, for my future peace, his daughter does

not take after him.”

“Now, Harry!” accompanied with a deep blush, was all the answer, and

Katy was turning away, knowing instinctively how to punish her saucy

lover, when Harry hastily continued:

“I think I have prevented that, however.”

“Have you? How?”

“I suggested something else for them to talk about, that will occupy

their thoughts most of the time.”

With a shy, sidelong glance, like a bird alarmed but uncertain of the

danger, Katy replied:

“And what subject was that, pray?”

“Our love, Katy.”

“A very silly subject, that need occupy nobody any time at all. You had

better say your love, sir.”

“Now, darling, don’t tease, I have only a moment, or I shall be too late

for the cars.”

“Then, why not go at once? I am full as busy. Was not that Jane calling

me?” She made a great show of leaving, but managed to remain, evidently

anticipating something of importance from her lover’s manner, and in a

female way dreading though desiring the disclosure.

“Wait one instant; I need not repeat how I love you, you have heard that

often.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“But to-day I am to be admitted to a partnership with my old employer,

who kindly offered it, with some complimentary remarks, so late as

yesterday.”

“You deserved it long ago.”

“Not at all, I was well paid for my services; but now”--having drawn the

willing but skittish beauty towards him, he whispered--“now I can keep a

wife.”

Her lips were close, her cheeks were tempting, her eyes turned away, her

hands busy with the buttons of his coat, it is not certain he took

advantage of these opportunities; but suddenly starting into life, she

gave him a gentle tap on the ear, pulled away, and turning to hide her

blushes, called out, as she darted from the room:

“You must catch her first, and the train starts in twenty minutes.”

“So it does,” he muttered, as the delighted look of admiration with

which he had regarded her faded slowly from his eyes; “what a darling

witch, it is so full of fun, and yet, as the neighboring poor can

testify, so gentle, generous, and sympathetic.” A thousand thoughts of

all the loving acts he would do for her came into his mind as he

hastened towards the depot.

“Well, friend,” said Mr. Hartley, as the two deacons were journeying

along at a sober gait in the old-fashioned but comfortable buggy of the

wealthier, “what a beautiful day it is, not merely for our sport, and it

could hardly be better, but to admire the beauties of nature! The summer

foliage looks truly gorgeous in the broad sunshine.”

“Yes, indeed, and the influence of such a day must be felt by the moral

nature of man. Even upon man debased by vice, I believe in the country

as a moral purifier, and think a system should be devised by which

criminals would be thrown in contact with it as much as possible.”

“I agree with you fully, and had an evidence this morning how it opens

the heart and emboldens the affections. You know Harry has long been

attentive to your daughter Katy, and I believe they have had a sort of

half understanding.”

“A fine fellow is Harry; true, honorable, and energetic,” said Mr.

Goodlow, heartily.

“He is so, and I, as his father, am proud to admit it; but Katy is a

noble girl, and worthy of the finest fellow in the world.”

“Well, we start the subject with a hearty accord,” replied the friend,

smiling; “I can readily imagine what will follow, and have no doubt we

will be equally of accord on that.”

“The short of it is, Harry has just been placed in a position that

authorizes him to marry, and he wants you to trust Katy to him. On the

subject of support he was satisfactory, and on that of love

enthusiastic. He hoped your favorite minister would perform the

ceremony.”

This last remark was uttered very slowly, for it must be known the two

deacons belonged to rival churches and different persuasions, and had

had many a contest over form and ritual.

“That is a matter of small moment,” was the response, “but if any form

should be simple it is the marriage ceremony. I really think it had

better be performed in your church, where there is less regard for

formality.”

“And for that reason I coincided in my son’s selection; our church

teaches us that while we are not to insist upon forms as the essence of

religion in any of its departments, we are not to indulge prejudice

against them. That they are immaterial either way.”

“A strange view, indeed,” responded the opposing deacon, warming to the

question; “strange that any one could conceive that the form in which he

expressed his adoration was unimportant; in all religion, prayer takes

the form of the bowed head and bended knee. Unseemly postures and acts

are themselves irreverent, not to advert to the effect they must produce

upon the mind that indulges in them on serious occasions. We owe to our

fellow-men respectful deportment on solemn occasions, how much more so

to our Creator. Form is the embodiment of the spirit of true worship,

and partakes of its essence and beauty.”

“We fear,” responded his associate, “that form, from its very beauty,

may distract the heart and engross the attention to the neglect of the

essentials of devotion. Pleasing forms are beautiful to our senses, but

God looks to the pure heart and humble mind; the formalities of religion

too often hide an aching void of real principle, and while they quiet

the conscience produce no good fruit in the soul. Therefore, we dread

them, lest though the sepulchre be whited on the outside it hide

rottenness within.”

They were both intelligent men, devoted to their sects, which although

in belief almost identical, in forms were dissimilar; and they enforced

and illustrated their views with great vigor, learning, and eloquence,

and with the ordinary effect of religious discussions, that each was

finally more firmly convinced that he was in the right. The hopes of

their children were forgotten for the time, an occasional sharp

innuendo added spice if not acerbity to the argument, and before their

destination was reached a feeling of coldness, approaching

dissatisfaction, had sprung up between the two friends.

There were no blue-fish running, and it was determined to try the

striped bass that, although small, had begun to be plentiful, and in

case of their absence to tempt the flounders, sea bass, black fish, or

other like plebeians. In silence they pulled off to the fishing ground,

and silently they cast overboard the anchor-stone and baited their

hooks. Fishing has a calm, soothing influence incompatible with anger or

estrangement. Occasional remarks were made which would doubtless have

soon led to a perfect reconciliation had not the Fates prominently

interfered. Mr. Hartley, who rowed the boat, had stationed himself in

the bow, and strange to say began to take fish as fast as he could land

them, while Mr. Goodlow, in the stern, usually the favorite location,

caught nothing.

Fishing is a contemplative amusement, but when one contemplates his

associate catching all the fish the amusement vanishes. Deacon Goodlow

was a devotee of the gentle art, fancied himself an expert, and never

doubted his far excelling his less experienced brother; had great faith

in skill as opposed to luck, having often expatiated upon the fact that

he rarely found an equal, and felt fully convinced that in skill he was

not excelled.

Now skill is a very necessary thing and will tell in the long run, but

luck is sometimes, doubtless for a wise purpose, permitted to triumph

over it. In vain did the unfortunate deacon renew his baits, change the

depth of his sinker, fish on the bottom or near the top; the result was

the same. His irritation increased and broke forth into ejaculations of

impatience, and a sudden desire to move to some other spot.

“There seem to be no fish here, we had better try a new place,” he said

pettishly.

“I am doing very well, and doubt whether we could better ourselves,”

replied his associate with that hilarity that success engenders, landing

two bright little bass at once.

“You do not call that good fishing, they are mere sprats. I have taken

many a bass of twenty-four pounds, and two of over fifty.”

“But you know the run is always small in this month.”

“Of course I know that; but I never saw such luck, you must have taken

twenty, such as they are.”

“More than twenty, thirty at least; but perhaps we had better change

places, I have taken more than I want and you had better try your hand.”

After some demur and a coquettish but half sulky refusal to deprive him

of his “good luck,” Mr. Goodlow complied with his friend’s suggestion,

but wonderful to say the luck changed at the same time; the fish all

fled to the stern of the boat and were landed there faster than they had

been previously over the bow. In fact, one line seemed to be bewitched

as though the fish were in a piscatorial conspiracy. Even when the

unfortunate fisherman extended his line and allowed his float to swing

round beyond the stern and even alongside of his companion’s, that of

the latter would be dragged under at every moment, while his would

remain undisturbed.

“Well, I have seen luck before,” he began, fiercely, “but never such

luck as this; how deep are you fishing?”

This question, as betraying the possibility of inferior judgment, fairly

stuck in his throat.

“About three feet.”

“Mine is the same. No, it is mere luck, that is all.” Anger was making

his language slightly ungrammatical.

Mr. Hartley replied, as he landed another brace: “Of course it is, and

now let’s change seats again and see if we cannot outwit the fish.”

Being patronized by an inferior fisherman is almost unbearable, it

implies triumph with nothing to justify it; and an assumption of

superiority will be suspected if not intended. So Mr. Goodlow held out

for a time, saying slightingly: “Oh, it was a mere question of luck,

mere luck that must soon change;” but as it did not, and as his friend’s

manner was soothing and even submissive, he at last consented, with the

air of conferring a favor, to resume his old place in the stern.

At the first cast which Mr. Hartley made after returning to his seat at

the bow, he hooked and landed the largest fish yet seen. This was too

much, and if people swear inwardly it is greatly to be feared the

unfortunate deacon will have to report hereafter one of the commandments

broken on that occasion.

“Come,” he said, “we will go home; another time perhaps I can have a

little luck. I used to think there was something like skill in fishing,

but there does not appear to be in catching these miserable little

fish.”

“Why, my last one must have weighed two pounds.”

“Two pounds! Not an ounce over one. I have had enough for this day, and

the sun is remarkably hot.”

“Oh, I cannot go just yet; here comes another, nearly as large as the

last.”

“I insist upon it,” Mr. Goodlow continued, having reeled up his line and

taken apart his rod. “I will not stay longer, my horse must be fed, and

it is late.”

“When a person comes out fishing,” replied Deacon Hartley, growing

irritated, “it is a poor way to be wanting to go home because another

catches the fish, especially as I am perfectly willing to divide

equally.”

“What do you think I care for those puny little fish? You may keep them

all, in welcome.”

“I suppose I may if I wish; they are mine because I have caught them, or

nearly all; but I will give you half if you will cease grumbling at what

you call your luck.”

“Well, what is it if not luck! Perhaps you think you surpass me in skill

and experience,” answered the other sneeringly. “I tell you I am going

home. It is my horse, and you may come or stay, as you choose.”

With that he seized the oars and shipping them into the nearest

rowlocks, commenced furiously rowing the boat stern first. But the

anchor-stone was down, and although he dragged it a few inches, he did

so slowly and with great labor. Mr. Hartley went on deliberately

fishing, but of course could catch nothing while the water was being

disturbed.

“Pull up the anchor-stone, sir,” said Mr. Goodlow fiercely, the

perspiration streaming down his face.

“I will do nothing of the kind,” responded Mr. Hartley.

The tugging at the oars was resumed, but when Mr. Goodlow was nearly

exhausted, whether by accident or not will probably never be known, the

oar slipped along the surface throwing a shower of water over the

quondam friend, fairly taking away his breath. Without a word the latter

dropped his rod, and seizing the bailing scoop, a sort of wooden shovel

with a short handle, dipped it full of water and threw the contents in

his companion’s face; the latter replied with a fresh douche from the

oar.

The water fairly flew in mimic cataracts for ten minutes, till both

parties were wet to the skin; originally, scoop had the best of it, but

as skin and clothes will not take wetting beyond a certain degree, oars

caught up, and the two irate lights of the church were as well drenched

as if they had fallen overboard. Mutual exhaustion produced a cessation

of hostilities, and after a moment’s pause, Deacon Hartley slowly drew

up the anchor-stone, and Deacon Goodlow rowed silently to shore. Without

a word, without a glance, the latter stepped to his buggy, untied the

horse, jumped in and rode off.

Mr. Hartley had to secure the boat, collect his fish, unjoint his rod,

and walk four miles home. The day was hot, the road was dusty, the fish

were heavy, and tired enough he would have been, if an acquaintance

passing in a wagon had not taken him up. The dust having covered him

from head to foot helped disguise what had happened, and he allowed the

gentleman to think he had slipped into the water.

The thoughts of the two deacons on the way home were not enviable. One

had to meet a son, the other a daughter, and the latter dreaded the

interview most; not that he admitted he was most to blame, but fearing

more her sharp eyes and reproachful countenance.

“Oh, Harry,” said the pretty little girl usually so gay, now with

sad-looking tearworn eyes, as she encountered her astonished lover on

his way home from the railroad, “your father and mine quarrelled

dreadfully to-day, so much so that they would not ride home together.”

“Just as I expected,” replied Harry, triumphantly; “your father is so

easily excited.”

“No, but he says it was your father’s fault, at least he does not say

so directly, but what he does say gives me that impression. Just think,

your father threw water over mine, and he was all mud and dirt when he

reached home.”

“Impossible,” said Harry, with a laugh, “he must have fallen overboard.”

“Oh, no, and your father would not ride home with him.”

“How did he get home then? he certainly would not have walked by

preference four miles, on so hot a day as this. Imagine his half killing

himself to deprive a person of his company who wished to be rid of him.”

“Oh, it must be; father was so angry, he told me I should not see you

again.”

This response was illogical, and went far to disprove itself, but was

enforced by her bursting into tears. “I have been crying ever since,”

she sobbed.

Harry consoled her, sure of her affection; and knowing that parents are

a slight affair against affection, he brought back smiles to her lips by

his comments on her account of her father’s statement, and promised her

it would come right if she only kept on obeying as scrupulously as she

was then doing. She punished him for this by flying away in her former

merry manner, leaving him to seek an explanation at home.

“Father,” he said, on arriving there and seeking him out, “how spruce

you look; that is your best suit. Are you going to pay a visit?”

“I believe not, this evening; my other clothes were soiled while we

were fishing.” Strictly true, but not all the truth.

“The deacon across the way came home rather muddy, they say. What luck

did you have? Did it rain while you were out? There was not a cloud to

be seen in New York.”

The father felt it would be useless to evade the question, and related

the whole story, bearing kindly the good-natured comments of his son,

between whom and himself there was a feeling of friendship as well as of

affection.

“And now, father,” Harry began, after the recital was over, “and now how

are you going to make up? You will have to make the first step, because

you were not in the wrong.”

“Or, more truly, because my son loves the daughter of the person who has

ill-used me. Are you not angry at my being left to walk home this hot

day?”

“I should be, if that wagon had not come along; everything depends on

that wagon. You know it was much pleasanter than riding with an angry

man.”

“But then the dust; my clothes are ruined; a new suit will diminish your

patrimony, which is not enormous.”

“Then I’ll make you a present of a splendid suit of black on my wedding

day. I am rich, at least in expectation, being a partner and no longer a

clerk.”

“To tell the truth,” continued the father, dropping the tone of

badinage, “I did feel ashamed of myself, and was arranging a little

plan of reconciliation, when our servant girl brought word that Mr.

Goodlow had forbidden her drawing water from the well.”

Harry looked at his father with a surprised, troubled, and slightly

angry look. The well was on Mr. Goodlow’s land, but had been used from

time immemorial by both families, as there was none other near. He began

to think the matter was more serious than he had at first supposed.

“I felt this to be unchristian,” continued his father, “and could not

bring myself to make the first advance after it.”

“I can hardly believe the story, and will cross-question the girl,”

replied Harry.

It turned out to be true, however; the girl had been going to the well,

as Deacon Goodlow descended, “all mud,” as she described it, from his

buggy, and he seeing her at first seemed inclined to avoid a meeting,

but suddenly changing his mind told her angrily never to come there for

water again. With all due allowance for kitchen exaggeration, the fact

could scarcely be disputed, and Harry suddenly burst forth:

“We will dig a well of our own; I have always hated dependence for

anything, even on her father, and then we’ll see--”

What they would see was not very clear, except that they would see the

well built, for Harry, with his usual impetuosity, at once set about

making the necessary arrangements, his new position enabling him to

supply the requisite means. He engaged the men and selected the spot

that very evening.

Next day the well was commenced and advanced rapidly towards completion,

the water for family use being carted in the mean time from a distance

in barrels. What the deacon over the way must have thought when he saw

the excavation progressing and the water cart regularly every morning

passing in front of his door, no one knows; for not a word did he say.

He could not have had an easy conscience nor a pleasant time, however,

for Harry had not put his foot on the premises, and consequently Katy’s

eyes were almost as full of water as the barrel.

It was a long way down to the region of water, and if truth, as is

generally believed, lies so deep, there is no wonder it is rarely

reached; but the effort was at length successful, and when the liquid

vein was struck the crystal fluid proved plentiful, half filling the

deep well.

The water carts ceased their journey, the workmen were discharged,

Deacon Hartley had a well of his own, Harry felt independent; but there

was something else wanted. The latter had not exactly evaded Katy, who

he knew was pining to see him, but, feeling his pride hurt, had not

taken as great pains as he might to have thrown himself accidentally in

her way. She had felt this neglect, and now when his pride was satisfied

hers was aroused, and she kept herself carefully in-doors.

It took a week to build the well, and a week had elapsed since--that was

two weeks of misery, all because the fish did not bite as they should

have done, and neglected scientific allurements for less artistic

attractions. Deacon Goodlow was miserable, because Katy looked unhappy

and reproachful, occasionally enforcing her reproaches with a sob or

two. Deacon Hartley was miserable, partly because he was ashamed of

himself and partly because it went against his whole nature to quarrel;

Katy was miserable, because her lover had neglected her, and she had had

no chance to disobey her father’s injunctions not to see him; Harry was

the most miserable of the party now that the excitement of achieving his

independence was over, because he missed the presence of his lady-love,

and knew in his heart he had vented a little of his anger by neglecting

her.

Harry was pining for her now in a much more rampant way than she had

previously pined for him, and had revolved twenty impracticable schemes

of restoring matters to their condition previous to the war. The

inevitable laws of nature, however, that had caused all these mental

wounds, helped to bring them to a crisis and finally to effect a cure.

It was Sunday morning, and Harry had resolved twenty times he would join

Katy on her way to church, for she went before her father to teach a

class of Sunday scholars, and twenty times resolved that he would not.

His father had convinced himself as many times that neighborly ill-will

should be corrected at a sacrifice even of a little pride, and as often

that he could not make the first advance; when a small voice was heard

at the door, and electrified them both. It was not a sweet voice nor the

tone rich, in fact it might be called harsh and unrefined, but the sound

was pleasanter to Harry’s ears than any he had heard in two weeks. The

voice belonged to the extra help of Mr. Goodlow’s household.

“Please, sir, master said I mussent, but could we have a little water

from your well?”

Harry and his father gazed at each other and then at the girl in wonder.

“Please, sir,” she continued, seeing their bewildered air, and

addressing herself to Harry in an injured tone, “our well has run itself

dry. Ever since you built yours the water has been getting lower, and

last night it all went. Master says it’s on account of the elevation,

but I say it’s because yours is further down hill.”

“Do you mean to say you have no water at all?” said Harry.

“But I do, then, unless you call mud water; we managed to make tea last

night by tying a new bit on to the rope; but wasn’t it bitter and

gritty, though? You ought to have tasted it; but to-day it’s as thick as

paste, and you know we cannot send a water cart on Sunday.”

“How did you manage for washing?”

“That’s how it comes we have no water for breakfast. We had saved up a

little that had settled the worst down to the bottom, but we did not

have enough to wash, and Miss Katy, when she tried to use the well

water, came out all streaked, and used up all that we had put by;

because, as she said, she would rather go without her breakfast than go

dirty. I guess I wouldn’t, though.”

“But why did you not send to us before?” said Mr. Hartley,

compassionately.

“Why, because master thought as he had ordered away your girl, you would

do the like by me; unless he begged pardon, or something of that sort,

and he did not feel equal to that after your throwing him overboard the

day you went fishing.”

“He surely never said I threw him overboard?”

“No, but I guessed it; how could he ’a got so wet otherwise, and why was

he so mad?”

“Well, you guessed all wrong; I did nothing of the sort, and hope you

have told no one such a silly story.”

“Never mind that now,” interrupted Harry. “Mr. Goodlow is waiting for

his breakfast; so take as much water as you want or you will be too

late.”

“Give my respects to Mr. Goodlow,” added his father, “and say he is

welcome to water from our well at any time, and that I regret it has

injured his.”

“Yes, and you can add that father will call on him this evening, and now

be off; I’ll draw the water for you.” This was very polite in Harry, but

respect for woman, even in the humblest ranks, is ever the attribute of

an American, and--it is possible Harry may have wished to send a message

to Katy. “Leastways,” as the girl would have said, Katy was hardly out

of sight of her front gate when she heard a step she well knew.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, turning a pair of sorrowful eyes upon him, that

shot reproachful torments into his very heart. “How could you?”

The sentence was incomplete in its construction, but complete enough in

its effects; it was enforced with a little sob and made Harry about as

contemptible a wretch, in his own esteem, as if she had rehearsed a set

speech of an hour’s duration, depicting his enormities.

“I am so sorry, Katy. Do you forgive me? I have been wretched.” This was

a good tack, and being borne out by his appearance and evident

contrition, went a long way towards securing his pardon.

What exactly was said, the tones being low and the faces close together,

will never be discovered, but light came back to Katy’s eyes, color to

her cheeks, and a smile, if nothing more, to her lips; and ere the

church was reached a happier couple could not be found within it. Joy is

doubly blessed if preceded by sorrow, and only those who have known its

want can appreciate happiness.

That Sunday evening, as had been his custom, unbroken for many years

till the last two weeks, Harry presented himself at Mr. Goodlow’s gate

and entered unannounced. It can hardly be said he was wholly

undisturbed, but outwardly exhibited perfect composure, prepared to meet

and determined to exhaust the worst. Courage dispels danger, and there

was nothing and nobody to meet more terrible than Katy herself. She was

in splendid spirits, full of fun, rendered more touching and gentle on

account, of the recent estrangement, and charmed Harry with the renewal

of her former witchery. He gave himself up to the mere enjoyment of her

presence, following her every motion with unwearying admiration, and

never removing his eyes from her loved form. He seemed as though

drinking through his eyes her graceful beauty, and experienced all those

charming sensations that love alone bestows.

He had almost forgotten, basking in present joy and dreaming hazily of

future happiness, there was an angry father in existence, when the

latter gentleman appeared at the door. A gleam of surprise crossed his

features, but Harry at once stepped forward and was in the act of boldly

justifying his presence, when he saw another figure in the doorway--that

of his own parent.

Mr. Goodlow slowly advanced, and extending his hand frankly to Harry,

said:

“I am glad to see you, and hope you will forget the errors and

weaknesses of humanity, and forgive me the annoyance my foolish and

unworthy quarrel has caused.”

“And you, Katy,” said Mr, Hartley, “must do the like by me; we have been

guilty of wrong, and should only do worse by being ashamed to own it

before our children, whom our example is most likely to affect.”

Harry felt as though he had escaped from a building on fire, and at

once recovering his elasticity, replied:

“No; in quarrelling Katy and I never intend to follow any one’s example.

Do we, Katy?”

“We only regret,” she continued, evading his gaze, “that a shadow should

have come between those we love so dearly.”

“I hope, never to return,” replied Mr. Goodlow, “and that these weeks of

folly and punishment may not be lost upon us all; but let us speak no

more of it.”

“We have something more serious still to mention,” resumed Mr. Hartley,

gaily. “We have been settling your wedding-day, and, Katy, you should be

very grateful, for I named an early one.” He took her affectionately in

his arms, for she had always been like a daughter, and kissed her warmly

while she hid her blushing face.

“That is right, father,” burst forth Harry, enthusiastically. “I suppose

you went on the principle, ‘If ’tis well done, when ’tis done, ’twere

well ’twere done quickly.’”

“No, Harry, on an entirely different one,” said Mr. Goodlow, laughing

heartily. “On the principle, that ‘All’s well that ends well.’ Though

that is but a dry joke, as far as we are concerned.”

PROTECTION OF FISH.

The subject of the protection of fish demands the consideration of every

political economist, as well as of every sportsman in our country, or we

shall soon be reduced to the condition of France, and forced to

repopulate our deserted streams and lakes and furnish to the people,

with great labor and at high price, one of their chief articles of food.

In olden times, during the epicurean days of Rome, and later during the

reign of the Catholic fast days, the utmost attention was bestowed upon

the preservation, protection, and improvement of fish; enormous revenues

were invested in immense tanks where they were fattened, and different

species were transported to countries where they were unknown, and

domesticated in unaccustomed waters. With the advent of the Roman

Catholic religion, several foreign varieties were introduced into

England, among others the fat carp and the lean pickerel; and fish ponds

were invariably attached to monasteries and convents.

Although the religion that ordains fish-eating to be fasting, having

shrunk from its gigantic reach and extent, is confined in our land to a

small sect, and the inhabitants of the waters are no longer a religious

institution; fish must always constitute a considerable portion of the

diet of the poor, and an acceptable change, if not permanently

agreeable, to the rich. Whatever serves for food to the people, above

all to the lower class, deserves the attention of the statesman, and any

practice that will tend to diminish its price demands the assistance of

the philanthropist. Consider if the price of fish were suddenly to

double, how far the injury would extend, and how much suffering would

follow. When a gradual change takes place in the cost of any article of

food, man adapts himself to altered circumstances, and the loss, though

equally great, is not so perceptible as when the advance is sudden.

That the supply of this food can be exhausted, and its quality easily

reduced, is painfully apparent; streams in the neighborhood of New York

that formerly were alive with trout are now totally deserted. The Bronx,

famous alike for its historical associations and its once excellent

fishing, does not now seem to hold a solitary trout, or indeed fish of

any kind. The shad that a few years ago swarmed up the Hudson River in

numbers incomputable, have become scarce and quadrupled in price during

the last decade. Salmon, most nutritious and noblest of fish, which in

ancient days paid their yearly visits in vast numbers, if early

historians are to be believed, to our principal rivers as far south as

the Delaware, are at present taken nowhere to the southward of Maine,

and in but limited quantities even in that wild region.

On every portion of our sea-coast, in spite of replenishment from the

mighty ocean, the same diminution is visible, while many of our confined

inland waters are absolutely depopulated. The insatiable maw of New York

market swallows alike the trout from Maine, the bass from Lake Erie, or

the white-fish from the Sault Ste. Marie, while the parvenus that have

acquired sudden fortunes in that wonderful city, endowed with the

instincts of neither gentlemen nor sportsmen, think it magnificent to

devour trout in Autumn and black bass in Spring, judging by their

extravagant price that they must be rare and therefore good. The

rapidity with which a section of country can be fished out by energetic

pot-hunters where the law places inadequate restraint, and often in

spite of the law’s restraint, has been remarkably evidenced in the

history of Sullivan County. When the Erie Railroad was still incomplete,

and the tide of explorers had just commenced to penetrate beyond Goshen,

and only occasional stragglers reached the land of promise and

performance beyond Monticello; the swamps were alive with woodcock and

the streams with trout. But as the railroad advanced and gave improved

facility of travel, so-called sportsmen poured over the country in

myriads, following up every rivulet and ranging every swamp, killing

without mercy thousands of trout and hundreds of birds, boasting of

their baskets crowded to overflowing, and counting a day’s sport by the

hundred; till Bashe’s Kill, where the pearly-sided fish once dwelt

abundantly, was empty, and the broad Mongaup, the wild Callicoon, and

even the joyous Beaver Kill, with its innumerable tributaries, were

exhausted. The woodcock disappeared from the cold black mud of the

springy swamps, the trout no longer broke the surface of the noisy rills

of that picturesque region, and the hunters and fishermen turned their

attention and carried their clumsy rods, bait-hooks, cheap guns, and

case-hardened consciences, elsewhere.

So it has been and will be everywhere, unless the people and the real

sportsmen take the matter in hand; the farmers, who are after all to be

the salvation of our institutions, lose by the destruction of game one

of the greatest attractions of their lands, and are interested in

preserving for themselves and their city friends the wild dwellers in

the lakes and brooks from wanton and ruthless destruction. Lawgivers are

concerned in the passage of proper laws on account of public interest,

and the increasing necessity of cheap food that a rapidly augmenting

population engenders. Sportsmen have the greatest stake, for if they

would retain for their old age and leave to their children the best

preserver of health, a love of field sports, they must protect

game-birds and fish. They should discourage, by their conversation and

example, all infringement of the law or any cruel or wasteful

prosecution of what should be sport. If they find a man who destroys,

for the purpose of destroying, they should not only shun but expose him;

if they meet with a case of palpable infraction of the law, they should

enforce punishment; by these means, and the enactment of judicious

statutes, the beautiful wild creatures that form so pleasant an addition

to the charms of country life, may be preserved in undiminished numbers

for all time.

The first necessity, however, is that proper and uniform enactments

should be passed in every portion of our extensive nationality. If the

close times differ in adjoining states, fish will be killed in one and

sold in the other; it is useless to attempt to forbid the catching of

trout in Maine, if they can be eaten in New York. Pinnated grouse,

killed on the western prairies where they are fast being exterminated,

are sold openly in New York markets in consequence of their omission

from the game law, during the entire spring, until the heat of the

weather prevents their transportation. Black bass are frequently exposed

on the hucksters’ stands heavy with spawn, and pike-perch are hardly

regarded as desirable in any other condition.

The universal rule should be comprehensive and simple, as the habits of

the fresh water fish are sufficiently well known; protection should be

given during the spawning season, and for such a period before and after

as to prevent the annihilation of those who have survived the numerous

dangers that surround them, and are ready for the duties of parturition,

and to allow them to recover from the exhaustion resulting from the

operation.

No trout should be killed except from the first of March to the first of

October; no lake trout except from the first day of February to the

first day of November, and no black bass or mascallonge from the first

day of January to the first day of June. These times may be restricted

for certain localities where greater protection is necessary, but

should, under no circumstances, be enlarged. Trout spawn from the middle

of October to the latter part of November, and do not recover their

condition till the opening of Spring. Lake trout spawn about the same

time, and mascallonge and black bass in March, April, or even as late as

the early part of May.

None of these fish should be taken in nets, nor by spearing, and no

fykes, seines, or gill-nets should be used in the waters which they

inhabit. Stringent regulations to this effect are necessary, as it has

been the habit of the market fishermen of the northern section of our

country to use a net with meshes small enough to catch yearling trout,

and which they frequently throw to one side and leave to perish

miserably. This net fishing is continued all winter, so that not only

are thousands of large fish destroyed in the act of spawning, or just

after doing so, but millions of the young, the seed of the harvest, are

slain without profit, being left on the ice to freeze.

Spearing is also terribly fatal. None can escape the sharp eye of the

spearsman, and although many more are wounded than killed they rarely

recover, for their natural enemies, the eels, are ever on the alert for

such occurrences, and fastening themselves upon the wounded spot suck

out the little life that is left. There are many streams of New Jersey

which, by persistent gigging, as it is called, have been divested of

every swimming thing, so that they are absolutely uninhabited. Not only

trout, but cat-fish, eels, and suckers, have met the same untimely fate,

and now boys and men search vainly for their prey.

By fair fishing no stream or pond can be entirely exhausted; when trout

have the privilege of biting or not, they will exhibit sufficient

circumspection to perpetuate their species; but when they can be

followed during the hours of darkness to their retreats, and exposed by

the glare of the jack, are liable to death by the fatal spear, or in

case they may be enveloped by the all-devouring net, they have no

defence or escape, and must soon disappear entirely. Their numbers,

instead of helping them or delaying the catastrophe, excite the cupidity

of the poacher, and accelerate instead of deferring their destruction.

Interested parties in various sections of the country, endeavor to

convince themselves and others that trout change their nature in these

favored localities, and either spawn from time to time as fancy

dictates, or postpone the performance till winter’s frosts have driven

profitable visitors to their city homes. The proprietors of the frontier

taverns, where sportsmen congregate in search of finny prey, boldly

assert that there are several kinds of brook trout, of which one variety

spawns in September, another in October, and so on in such manner that

it is always right and proper to fish for them. Naturalists have, as

yet, failed to discover this peculiarity or describe these varieties;

and although they know that individuals may differ casually or delay the

act a few weeks, they recognise one well known spawning season. The

_ova_ of trout are largely developed in September, and, except in the

colder latitudes and where they are extremely abundant, these fish

should be exempt after the first of that month; but in October and

November, pressing hunger should be the only excuse for killing them.

The laws, however, are not so much to blame as the neglect of their

enforcement; perfect statutes will not answer if they are not carried

out, and the first duty of sportsmen’s clubs and of individual

sportsmen, a duty to humanity, to themselves, and to their fellow

creatures, is to enforce the game laws. By game laws are not meant those

barbarous statutes of England that made it more criminal in a poor man

to slay a hare than a human being--statutes that are deservedly odious

to free men, and which by no possibility could be introduced into the

New World; but provisions for the protection and preservation of the

wild inhabitants of our woods and waters, a common heritage of beauty

and sustenance, and the property of our citizens indiscriminately. These

creatures are a considerable source of wealth, worthy the most careful

attention; they breed and increase of themselves without care or

expense; and constitute a large portion of the stock of our markets. It

would be an interesting investigation to ascertain how much money is

paid yearly in the City of New York for the wild deer and game birds of

the west, the sea fishes of our coast, the finer varieties of our inland

waters, and the salmon of Canada. The latter, alone, amounts to hundreds

of thousands of dollars, and is a severe tax paid to a foreign country

for the fatuity that drove those noble fish from our own rivers.

This vast source of revenue will, however, disappear, unless precautions

are taken to prevent the untimely slaughter of these unprotected

creatures. If their periods of incubation are disregarded, their nests

and spawning-beds broken up, and themselves, when engaged in the duties

of maternity, disturbed or slain, they will diminish rapidly till the

forests shall cease to be vocal with their harmony, and the water

animated with their gambols.

In England not only do game preserves produce a good rent from

enthusiastic sportsmen, but the fisheries, particularly of salmon, are

extremely valuable as commercial enterprises. At present, in our

country, we only recognise the value of these advantages by their loss.

The Tay produces a rental of $70,000 yearly for the salmon fisheries,

and so profitable have fishing rights become, that several rivers that

were once exhausted have been restored, and now yield large revenues.