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HAT’S that?”
The elect lady should have been asleep instead of sitting up in bed, an
animated interrogation point, for the hour was late and the ride from
Chicago that day had been hot and dusty and fatiguing.
“What’s what?” grunted the sleepy partner of her joys.
“That noise. Don’t you hear it? It sounds like a band playing in the
distance.”
When this suggestion finally penetrated the semiconscious mind of the
husband, the absurdity of the idea called forth certain emphatic if not
convincing negative arguments, all of which were met with the puzzling
query, “If it’s not a band, what is it?”
“That’s what I’ll soon find out,” answered the skeptic, as he arose to
begin a serious investigation.
The noise was unmistakable; faint but clear, and from without.
Approaching the window the noise became more distinct, but the character
of it remained a mystery. Bands are not indigenous in rural districts,
and no large town was near. With nose pressed against the window-screen
in a vain effort to see everything within a radius of five miles, the
explorer suddenly realized that the music was right at hand, and the
musicians, in countless numbers, were separated from his face only by
the wire netting. Mosquitoes? Exactly, and their name was legion.
If night had suddenly turned to day one could not have seen anything
through that window for the cloud of mosquitoes. New Jersey may justly
boast of the size and ferocity of her mosquitoes, but for numbers
Skegemog fears no rival.
It is more than probable that some reader will say to himself, “I
wouldn’t stay in such a place.” Well, we stayed, not because of the
pests, but in spite of them, and because they formed the only drawback
to one’s enjoyment. The Lodge was on a point of land with water on
three sides, the table was exceptionally satisfactory, the guests were
congenial and the black bass never failed to respond promptly to
our advances. What are a few mosquitoes, more or less, when such
paradisaical conditions obtain?
To many people a bass is a bass, and that’s all there is to it. To be
sure, they recognize the fact that some bass are larger than others, but
the process of differentiation begins and ends with the table of weights
and measures. Skegemog bass belong to the small-mouth family, and there
is as much difference between these and the big-mouth variety as between
a split-bamboo rod and a saw-log. The small-mouth is the aristocrat of
the bass family. He is more dainty in his tastes, more plucky, and has
more brains than his brother of the more generous facial opening.
And the small-mouth bass are not all alike. The marked differences seen
in children of the same family are duplicated in the individuality shown
by fish belonging to the same species. The bass whose home is in swift
waters is a stronger, more tireless fighter than his brother of the
lake. Of two bass living side by side in the same water, one may be logy
and lazy and indisposed to strenuous exertion when hooked, while the
other is brought to net only after he has tried every dodge known to
fishdom and exhausted every atom of his strength.
It was while fishing on the reef just west of the Point that the invalid
bass was taken. Each fisherman has his favourite method of capturing
bass. One uses live frogs and casts close to the edge of the rushes or
weeds along shore. Another trolls with many yards of line out, and a
piece of pork-rind or a minnow fastened to the spoon.
Still a third anchors his boat and still-fishes with live minnows. A
fourth method, and one which we prefer to any of the others, is to row
slowly over promising ground, letting the minnow sink well down and
keeping it constantly moving. It was while fishing in this manner and
after taking six or eight fine fish, that a feeble tug at the line
signalled the presence of the invalid. He came in with scarce a
struggle; in fact he seemed to be relieved to have his troubles ended.
As no expert was present to diagnose the case we shall never know from
what malady he suffered, but he was a sick fish. If he had been a man
the pallor and emaciation might have indicated tuberculosis, although
he did not cough. He had a giant frame, and in health would have weighed
five pounds or more. As it was, he barely went two pounds. As he was
still able to wiggle a little after the weighing process was over, he
was returned to the water, where, after lying seemingly lifeless for
a moment, he feebly swam away. Just before he disappeared he turned a
reproachful look towards the fisherman, as much as to say, “Why didn’t
you put an end to my suffering? I’m disappointed in you.” If we ever
catch another invalid fish we’ll kill him on the spot.
On a certain day, among the new arrivals was a Cleric and his Satellite.
The Cleric was a genial and interesting man and an enthusiastic
fisherman. That night he asked many questions about the fishing, and
calmly announced that the next day he would show us how to catch bass.
Then the Satellite took the floor and descanted at length upon the
prowess of his friend and the piscatorial victories won by him on other
waters and in other days. Not a word was said in reply by the men of
the company, some of whom had fancied that they knew a little about bass
fishing; but on more than one face there was a grim look which betokened
something a little short of perfect happiness.
The next morning the Cleric and his Satellite were up bright and early,
being the first to start out upon the day’s fishing. Later on, three
other boats put out, each containing a man who had vowed to beat that
Cleric or perish in the attempt. When night came and the records of the
day’s catches were compared, it was found that the high-hook had brought
in eighteen bass, another twelve, a third eight, while the invincible
Cleric had taken but two. Never again, as the guests gathered on the
porch at nightfall, did the Cleric expatiate upon his skill as a fisher
for bass, and no more did the Satellite recount the marvellous exploits
of his hero. On the faces of the other fishermen there rested a look
of deep satisfaction and in their eyes one might detect a gleam of
amusement. It isn’t necessary to brag about your achievements. Just do
things, and let that brag for you.
But the Cleric was a good fellow and his stories helped to pass many an
evening pleasantly. One, that may serve as a sample, has stuck in our
memory:
“Where a railroad crosses a Michigan river is a deep pool under the
bridge. As a fisherman was casting in this pool one day, he had a mighty
strike followed by the fierce whizzing of his reel as the fish ran out
the line. Before the man realized what was happening the line parted and
the fish was free. In the afternoon he returned with a new and stronger
line, only to repeat the experience of the morning. Then salmon tackle
was called into use, which was promptly smashed by the, as yet, unseen
denizen of the pool. By this time the fisherman had parted company with
all his cherished principles of sportsmanship, and vowed that he would
capture that fish even if he had to shoot it. Abjuring the rod, he next
employed a muskallonge line and a cod-hook, baiting with a five-inch
minnow. The fish responded promptly, and the big line just as promptly
parted when this Sandow of the finny tribe had gotten fully into action.
As a result of deep reflection the fisherman then bought a clothes-line
and employed a neighbouring blacksmith to make him a hook big enough and
strong enough to hold a shark. Baiting the hook with a pound of raw beef
and giving the line a half-hitch around a near-by stump, he once more
challenged his unseen foe. For three hours a mighty battle raged.
The blacksmith, two section hands and a farmer joined forces with the
fisherman, and the five of them finally succeeded in landing the fish.
After quieting him with a club, they began to wonder at the fight
which he had put up. While he was large--some twenty-five inches
in length--his size did not fully explain matters. Then one of them
undertook to turn the fish over with his foot, and could not stir him.
He used both hands and failed. Then the five together tackled the job
and barely succeeded. Evidently, here was an extraordinarily heavy fish,
and the phenomenon was explained only when they cut the fish open and
found him full of _railroad frogs_.” That story brings to mind the
champion storyteller of northern Michigan who acted as occasional
oarsman for the Skegemog guests. He was generally known as the “Cheerful
Liar,” and his kinship to Baron Munchausen was put beyond the shadow of
a doubt by the variety and character of his stories. After a somewhat
careful study of the man, at least one of his occasional companions
became convinced that he did not prevaricate consciously. His was simply
a case of an over-grown and exuberant imagination. Given a tiny bit of
fact as a starter, that imagination began to caper about without let
or hindrance until the most incredible story resulted. He was a great
comrade, always good-natured, always personally interested in the
fishing, a lover of the woods and the water, ready at all times with an
interesting story and never telling the same one twice. What more can
one reasonably ask in an oarsman?
In earlier days he had lived in another part of the state, and most of
his alleged adventures were localized on or near Clearwater Lake. As
accurately as we could compute, the fish which he claimed to have
caught in this one lake would have been sufficient to cover the southern
peninsula of Michigan to a depth of seventeen feet, six inches, and then
leave some four hundred fish unused. One of the most fascinating of his
many delightful yarns concerned his adventure with a giant pickerel:
“Cousin Jim Smith and I,” the narrator began, “were fishin’ one lowery
day on Clearwater Lake in a cranky little boat, when Jim hooked on to
a pick’rel. The fish put up a tough fight and Jim got excited and kept
standin’ up in the boat and I a-yellin’ to him to se’down. Bimeby Jim
got ‘im into the boat, and then jumped up again, and over we went. When
I saw we were goin’ I grabbed for the line and got holt just above the
spoon. That pick’rel pulled and I hung on and he took me clear to the
bottom in eighteen foot of water. When we got down there, I grabbed that
fish with both hands, tucked him under my left arm, gave a big spring
and shot up to the top of the water. What does that pick’rel do as soon
as we reached the top, but slip out from under my arm and make for the
bottom again, me hangin’ on to the line close to the spoon. When we
reached the bottom I tucked him under my arm again, gave another spring,
came to the top; the fish squirmed out again, and--well, I don’t know
how many times we made the trip up and back, but just when I was about
tuckered, some fellows in another boat came up and pulled us both in.
That pick’rel weighed twenty-two pounds.”
The thoughtful critic will easily separate the element of historic fact
from the mythical accretions in this story, and be able to retain Jim
and a fishing trip and a big “pick’rel,” even if compelled to reject the
account of the numerous subaqueous excursions.
In many of the larger inland lakes of Michigan lake-trout may be found,
and summer visitors vary the sport of bass fishing with excursions after
trout. Early in the season these fish are found in shallow water, along
the shore, and may be taken by ordinary trolling; but as the weather
grows warm the trout retreat to the deepest part of the lake, where they
can be captured only by some unusual means. The method employed does not
appeal strongly to a true sportsman, but he can afford to try it, once,
at least, for the sake of the novelty. At the foot of Elk Lake lived
an old man who was a past-master in the art of taking these deep-lying
trout, and to him the visitor turned when he grew satiated with bass
fishing and sighed for new worlds to conquer. The old fisherman has
a big, heavy boat, in the back end of which he has fixed a windlass
holding a thousand feet of fine, copper wire. The trout are lying in
about three hundred feet of water, and no ordinary line will allow the
trolling spoon to sink deep enough to reach those dim recesses. With all
the copper wire paid out, the old man rows slowly over the deepest parts
of the lake, while the tourist sits holding the handle of the windlass,
ready to begin turning at the least suspicion of a strike. Now and then
there is a false alarm, and the excited fisherman cranks in a thousand
feet of wire only to find a piece of wood or weed fastened to the
spoon-hook. When, by chance, a trout is hooked, the sensation differs
little from that experienced in winding up a bucket of water from a deep
well. The fish has not travelled far in his involuntary journey through
the water before he loses all ambition, fills with water and becomes no
more obstreperous than any other inanimate object would be when fastened
to sixty rods of line. These trout are delicious eating, and run as high
as twenty-five pounds, or even more in weight.
Other trout, the real, speckled brook-trout, are found in the streams
flowing into the lake, and more than one delightful day was spent in
pursuit of them. After all, there is no other fishing quite like that.
It is not altogether because brook-trout are the cleanliest, handsomest
of fish, or that they are so gamey and so toothsome that this sport is
easily the prime favourite with fishermen. The brook itself is a joy.
Just to company with it makes life worth while. It chatters to you,
laughs at you, plays hide-and-go-seek with you, and never gets to be an
old story. Sitting on an old root, just where a log fallen across the
stream makes a good hiding-place for the shy fish, it doesn’t matter
very much whether you catch anything or not. The checkers of sunlight
are dancing all about you, a red squirrel is scolding at you from a
neighbouring tree, a mink may go stealing by if you are quiet, and
over all is a great peace which steals into the heart, filling it with
profound contentment.
One day we followed far up the brook, so far that when the night fell
and we saw a farmer’s home across the fields, it was deemed wise to seek
lodging there for the night rather than to attempt the long trip back to
the Point through the darkness. The farmer and his wife were hospitable
and kindly, furnished us with an appetizing supper and, later on, showed
us to a tiny bed-room under the eaves. It was not the fault of the
house-wife, for the buildings were old, but a brief stay in that bed
proved beyond peradventure that it had been preëmpted. We did not “fight
and run away”; we ran without even beginning to fight. Stealing quietly
down stairs we made for the neighbouring barn and the haymow, where
we slept untroubled by anything more vicious than an occasional
“daddy-long-legs.” Then, in the early-morning, back to the brook again
and to trout that fairly tumbled over one another in their eagerness to
grab the “Silver Doctor” as the light rod sent it flitting to and fro
over the face of the stream.
When one of the guests proposed, one evening, that we all go on an
excursion up the lakes the next day, there was hearty and unanimous
assent. The lakes that wash the shores of Skegemog Point are only two of
a series, all connected by thoroughfares. A steamer of light draught can
go the whole length of the chain, some twenty-five miles or more. The
next morning proved ideal for such a trip. The sky was a deep blue with
just enough fleecy clouds in it to furnish the needed contrast. The wind
set little wavelets to dancing on every inch of the lake, but never
grew troublesome and unpleasant. The farmers were at work in their grain
fields on either shore, the luncheon was excellent, and nothing occurred
to mar the pleasure of the day. Why write of an experience so common and
so uneventful? Just because of what the day brought to one member of the
little company.
Among the excursionists was a man in middle life whose mother had gone
home to God the previous Christmas-time. He had seen the light go out of
her eyes, had held her hand in his as she breathed her last, had stood
by the new-made grave in the village cemetery as they lowered the casket
into the earth. The snow lay deep upon the ground and was steadily
falling as the friends turned away from the burial and, Christian man
though he was, that son could not feel that his mother was. Have you
ever felt that one who has been a part of your life, is not only dead,
but has utterly and entirely ceased to be? He told himself that she
whom he had loved so passionately was safe in our Father’s house, and he
believed it--but he could not feel it. The days and weeks and months had
come and gone, and still there had come to his heart--whatever his
head might affirm--no comforting sense that his mother still lived,
safe-sheltered in a better country. He was sitting by himself that day,
far up in the bow of the boat, drinking in the beauty of earth and sky
and lake. It all brought back other and golden days when he and his
mother had been together on the majestic St. Lawrence, and then, all
at once--_She_ was at hand. He felt her presence like a benediction. He
heard no voice, saw no vision; but somehow his soul sensed her nearness,
and his sore heart knew a comfort that has never departed and never
lessened in the years that have come and gone since that hour.
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