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Title: The Game Fish, of the Northern States and British Provinces
Author: Roosevelt, Robert Barnwell
Language: English
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[Illustration: ROBERT BARNWELL ROOSEVELT.]
THE
GAME FISH,
OF THE
NORTHERN STATES AND BRITISH PROVINCES.
WITH AN
ACCOUNT OF THE SALMON AND SEA-TROUT FISHING OF CANADA AND
NEW BRUNSWICK, TOGETHER WITH SIMPLE DIRECTIONS
FOR TYING ARTIFICIAL FLIES, ETC., ETC.
BY ROBERT BARNWELL ROOSEVELT,
AUTHOR OF “SUPERIOR FISHING,” “THE GAME BIRDS OF THE NORTH,” “FIVE
ACRES TOO MUCH,” “POLYANTHUS,” ETC., ETC.
ILLUSTRATED.
[Illustration: colophon]
NEW YORK:
751 BROADWAY.
1884.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1884, by the
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
PREFACE.
I have said in the first paragraph of this book that a preface is a sort
of apology, and viewing it in that light, my apology for writing this,
is to explain that the demand for a new edition seems to be so large
that I ought to comply with it. In doing so, a great deal of fresh
matter has been added to the original text, and the information and
directions have been brought down to the present time. The portion
relating to the propagation of fish has been entirely remodelled and
rewritten, so that nothing of the original matter has been left. That
was composed before the art of fish-culture had been developed, and
before a single fishery commission had been appointed in this country.
Considerable advance has also been made in the matter of tackle, rods,
and reels, all of which are far better manufactured now in this country,
than in any other part of the world, even in that birth-place of the
fishing art, England herself.
Having always been an enthusiast with rod and gun, attributing to the
sports of the field and stream the retention of good health amid
confining and sedentary occupations, I made the preparation of this work
a labor of love, and have with time come to be more than ever impressed
with the importance of out-door recreations. Inspiration acquired from
the woods and streams, and vigor earned by exercise in the pure air of
heaven are good for the soul as well as for the body.
Take sportsmen all in all, and there is not only a better physical
condition noticeable in their muscles, but they bear a more universal
humanity in their hearts than is to be found with mere business men or
even among the literary or learned. A sympathy exists between them not
often to be found in other classes of the community. Their grasp of
welcome seems more hearty, and their expressions of interest more
sincere. Certainly I have received more cordial kindness from them than
from any other people whom I have ever met.
I was one of the first to press on the State and National Governments
the importance of establishing fishery commissions, and being myself
appointed on that of the State of New York when it was created, in the
year 1867, and having remained on it ever since, I have necessarily kept
up with the times, and all improvements which have been made either in
the science of fish-culture or in the tools and methods of fishing.
Looking back, and still more I may say, looking forward to what the
future will bring forth, I have a right to claim that in aiding the
cultivation and protection of the objects of the sportsman’s pursuit,
and the means of his pleasure, in protesting against their unreasonable
and improper slaughter, and in describing the most legitimate and
scientific methods, and taking them, I have conferred some advantage
upon mankind as well as amused some idle hours.
THE AUTHOR.
_March, 1884._
GAME FISH.
CHAPTER I.
INSTRUCTION.
I have always considered a preface or introduction a species of apology,
and not intending that the following sketches shall need any apology, I
shall write no introduction; but an explanation of the scientific
distinctions and divisions of fishes may not only be appropriate but
highly instructive, if my readers be as ignorant as I think them.
It has been a matter of serious reproach by the naturalists against the
sportsmen, that the latter, instead of adopting a uniform nomenclature,
call a bird or fish in one section of our country by a different name
from that under which it is known in another; that a Quail and Black
Bass at the North become a Partridge and Trout at the South. The
sportsmen, conscious of the justness of the reproach, have submitted
quietly to the learned stones of reproof hurled at them, and scarcely
dared to suggest that their persecutors lived in the most fragile of
glass houses; that naturalists were liable to the same accusation, and
that there is hardly a fish, bird or beast that they have not called by
several different names. Are not the contentions of Ortyx and Perdrix
known to all? Is it quite certain, when we catch an Otsego Bass, whether
we catch a Coregonus Otsego or a Coregonus Albus, or even a Salmo
Otsego? Is it perfectly ascertained from a scientific point of view that
we catch anything? Who does not know that a Tautog is a Blackfish, or
would be materially instructed by hearing him called a Tautoga
Americana? Scientific men vie with one another in creating new names,
the most useless things in Christendom; while sportsmen are happy to
take them, the game, as they find them. The first are guilty of faults
of commission, the latter of omission. The language of each is Greek to
the other.
The writer of these sketches, knowing just sufficient Greek to be a
sportsman, and yet able to translate with the help of a dictionary,
offers, from the want of one more worthy, to conciliate all differences.
His plan is to translate all terms that are translatable, and to omit
altogether those that are not, trusting that they will never be missed.
His intention at first was to write a noble work on natural history that
would carry his name in letters of gold, as a public reformer and
benefactor, to latest posterity; but finding, on reviewing his stores of
information, that he knew but little on the subject, he was compelled to
relinquish the idea. Being therefore nothing but a gentle angler,
instead of instructing the universe, he is content to amuse a small
circle of lovers of sporting anecdotes, and, provided he receives it,
will be content with their approval. As, however, one fool can always
teach another something, the writer feels impelled to mingle a little
instruction in doses to suit the weakest stomach, that those who have
not skipped this chapter on account of its title, may at least receive
something for their perseverance. They need not suppose for a moment
that the writer pretends to insist upon what he shall write as
infallible, but where his readers differ from him, is perfectly willing
to admit that he is entirely mistaken; the buyer of a book is always
right, the author _a toujours tort_.
He supposes--let there be no misunderstandings when he accidentally uses
a stronger word--that fishes are divided into two great orders, and are
distinguished as having bony or cartilaginous skeletons; thus a quawl,
provided he be a fish at all, would be a very cartilaginous one, and a
catfish with his back fin erected, as the writer has often learned to
his cost, is a bony fish.
As the cartilaginous fish are of small account, the reader may forget
all about them if he wishes, but he is requested to remember the useful
division of those having bony skeletons into the great classes, easily
distinguished, of the soft finned and spiny finned, called in
foreign languages by the horrible terms _malacopterygii_ and
_acanthopterygii_--terms unpronounceable except by a Dutchman or a
philosopher. These classes are distinguished, as the English words
imply, by their having the rays of their fins soft and flexible or hard
and spine-like. The investigator may determine their peculiarities by
pressing strongly upon the points of the fin rays; if nature intimates
that his organism is suffering, the fish is a _acanthop_, etc.; if not,
why not.
[Illustration]
The location of the fins of the fish mark the subdivisions of the
families. The above diagram being supposed to represent a fish, and a
Trout at that, G is the first back or dorsal fin, F the second--in the
case of this species, mere rayless, fatty matter; E is the tail fin or
caudal--the writer, as a married man, naturally avoiding the latter
term on account of its suggestiveness; D is the anal fin, for which the
writer can offer no English substitute; C are the two ventrals or belly
fins; B is the pectoral or shoulder fin, having a complemental one on
the other side of the fish; and A represents what in learned language
are called _branchiostegous_ rays, a name that, being translated, means
merely gill-rays. What is not in a name! H is the lateral line. Then
bearing in mind the great divisions of soft and hard finned, the
subdivisions are distinguished by the fish having the ventrals behind
the pectorals and on the abdomen, giving them the name of _abdominal_
fish, or before the pectorals, giving rise to the name _jugular_ or
throat finned, and below the pectorals, giving the name _thoracic_ or
shoulder-finned fish. Philosophers pay little attention to the dorsal
and anal fins, and fish, without losing their identity, can have as many
as they please. In caudals, unlike human Caudles, they are restricted to
one. There are other fish, such as eels, denominated _apodal_ or
_footless_, because the lower fins or feet are wholly wanting.
After having examined the texture, number and location of the fins, and
counted the number of the rays in each, the naturalist next turns his
attention to the hard bony portion of the head, which covers the gills,
and opens and shuts as the fish breathes, and which, with the excellent
common sense for which naturalists are notorious, he calls the
_operculum_. It is divided into the _operculum_, or gill-cover proper,
No. 1; the _pre-operculum_, or fore gill-cover, No. 2; the
_inter-operculum_, or middle gill-cover, No. 3; and the _sub-operculum_,
or under gill-cover, No. 4. The head, in the foregoing diagram, is
intended to represent the head of a trout, weighing a pound and a half,
caught at Phillipse’s Pond, near Smith Town, Long Island. The gill-rays
are shown at No. 5. The divisions of the gill-cover are faintly marked
in the real fish, and require some study.
Lastly, the naturalist examines a fish as a jockey does a horse, by
looking at his teeth, and with about equally satisfactory results. They
both are bitten, whether the term be used in a literal or metaphorical
sense. The writer once, after catching a large fish, having heard that
trout had teeth in their throats, proceeded to investigate. Moved
thereto by the spirit of inquiry, he thrust one finger as far as
possible down the trout’s mouth, and was not a little surprised, as well
as pained, to find that the throat was lined with teeth sharper than a
serpent’s, and arranged in the same manner. They inclined backward, and
once having penetrated a substance, would not and could not let go. The
writer having suffered the agony that the pursuit of science sometimes
involves, after exhausting gentle means of escape, and knowing that he
could no more wear a trout, than the old man in the “Decameron” could
the protecting ring, with a wrench tore away his hand, a bleeding
sacrifice to science. Any reader wishing to ascertain the same facts,
may pursue a similar course.
On the foregoing diagram, which represents the arrangement of teeth in
the salmon tribe, No. 6 is the upper jaw, and No. 7 the lower; No. 8,
the outer teeth in the upper jaw, _superior maxillary_; No. 9, the same
in the lower jaw, _inferior maxillary_; No. 10, the inner row of teeth
of the upper jaw called learnedly the _palatine_; No 11, the teeth on
the tongue, and No. 12 those on the roof of the mouth, or _vomerine_.
The trout the writer has examined had no visible teeth on the roof of
the mouth; they had either suffered from toothache in early life, and
applying to a piscatorial dentist, had them drawn, or the teeth had
slipped down and settled round their throats as the writer has already
mentioned.
The reader, therefore, if he wishes to ascertain the scientific
designation of a fish, should in the first place determine the number
and location of the fins, the number and quality, as soft or hard, of
the rays, the number of gill-rays, the characteristics and position of
the teeth, the formation of the gill-cover, and lastly, as every
numscull, the drawing teachers assure us, who can write can draw, a
drawing of the fish, or at least an outline, should be made. The latter
can be done simply by laying the specimen on a sheet of paper, spreading
out his fins and running a pencil round him. And then the would-be
naturalist will ascertain whether or not he belongs to a class so very
liberal as to include salmon and smelt in the same category. He must not
forget that it is much more important to study the nature, habits and
food of the denizens of the water than to store his memory with their
names, “for our philosophers hitherto, instead of studying their nature,
have been employed in increasing their catalogues, and the reader,
instead of observations or facts, is presented with a long list of names
that disgust him with their barren superfluity.”
CHAPTER II.
THE AMERICAN TROUT.
The _Brook Trout_--_The New York Charr_--_Salmo fontinalis_.--Salmon
tribe; ventrals in abdomen, rays soft.
The shoulder and first back fins have each eleven rays; the second back
fin is mere fatty matter and rayless, the characteristic of the salmon
tribe; the ventral has eight, the anal fifteen, and the tail nineteen
rays. The back is dusky green, mottled with yellow spots; growing
lighter on the sides, where the spots have irregularly a beautiful blue
or carmine speck in the centre; the belly is silver white, with a
roseate tinge as it fades into the darker colors of the sides; the
shoulder fins are yellowish at the base, the ventrals yellowish red, the
anal reddish, and in all the rays are dusky. The gill-covers have no
defined spots.
The body is covered with delicate scales that will escape all but the
strictest observation. The teeth are on the tongue and throat, but none
on the roof of the mouth discernible to the naked eye; there is an outer
row on the lower jaw, and an inner and outer row on the upper jaw. This
fish is so well known to the public from its extensive distribution
through the northern States, and so totally dissimilar from the Perch
and Bass, miscalled Trout at the South, that a more particular
description does not seem necessary.
Another fish taken at the North in the smaller lakes is called Red
Trout, and attains the weight of twenty-five pounds. It is rare, and
would appear to be an undescribed species, differing from the trout of
the brooks and lakes, and not generally known even to sportsmen. A fish
of a somewhat similar character was on exhibition at an eating-house in
this city, but appeared to have been scaled. It was three feet six
inches long, and weighed eighteen pounds. The back was very dark, the
sides being of a lighter neutral tint, without any spots. There were a
number of vomerine teeth, and the fin-rays, as far as could be
ascertained by a cursory examination, were--
Br. 12; D. 13; P. 11; V. 8; A. 11; C. 19-5/5.
This fish was said to have been taken in Maine, and differed entirely
from the ordinary brook and lake trout. The fin-rays of the brook trout,
as scientifically given by De Kay, are--
D. 13·0; P. 12; V. 8; A. 10; C. 19-6/6.
Trout are in season from the first of February to the first of September
in the Long Island streams; from April to September in those streams of
the New England States that communicate with salt water; and from May
till September in the upland waters of the middle and eastern States.[1]
There is but one mode of taking them--namely, with the fly; although it
is said poachers and pot hunters capture them with worms, minnows, nets,
and even with their own roe. These villanies are not at present punished
with death nor even imprisonment for life; but our legislature is
looking into the matter, and there is no telling how soon such statutes
may be passed.
How splendid is the sport, to deftly throw the long line and small fly
with the pliant single-handed rod, and with eye and nerve on the strain,
to watch the loveliest darling of the wave, the spotted naiad, dart from
her mossy bed, leap high into the air, carrying the strange deception in
her mouth, and turning in her flight, plunge back to her crystal home,
with the cruel hook driven into her lips by a skillful turn of the
angler’s wrist; to meet and foil her in her fierce and cunning efforts
to escape, paying out the line as she rushes away resistless, meeting
her in emergencies firmly and steadily, till the tip crosses the but,
when she insists upon reaching the old stump or the weedy bottom; to
slack the line when she leaps into air, trying to strike it with her
tail; and above all, to watch the right moment, and keeping her head
well up, to bring the beautiful prize quickly and steadily to the net!
There may be others who have killed more and larger trout than myself,
there may be others who can cast a longer line and lighter fly; but
there are none who will work more steadily or who can enjoy it more
intensely.
There are innumerable rules applicable to trout fishing and innumerable
exceptions to each; neither man nor fish is infallible. A change of
weather is always desirable: if it has been clear, a rainy day is
favorable; if cold, a warm one; if the wind has been north, a southerly
one is advantageous; a zephyr if it has been blowing a tornado.
Generally, in early spring, amid the fading snows and blasts of winter,
a warm day is very desirable; later, and in the heats of summer, a cold,
windy day will insure success. Dead calm is dangerous, although many
trout are taken in water as still, clear and transparent as the heavens
above. The first rule is never to give up; there is hardly a day but at
some hour, if there be trout, they will rise, and steady, patient
industry disciplines the mind and invigorates the muscles. A southerly,
especially a southeasterly wind, has a singular tendency to darken the
surface, and in clear, fine waters is particularly advantageous; a
southwester comes next in order; a northeaster, in which, by the by,
occasionally there is great success, is the next; and a northwester is
the worst and clearest of all. Give me wind on any terms, a southerly
wind if I can have it; but give me wind. It is not known what quality of
the wind darkens the water, it may be a haziness produced in the
atmosphere, although with a cloudy sky the water is often too
transparent; it may be the peculiar character of the waves, short and
broken, as contradistinguished from long and rolling; but the fact is
entitled to reliance.
Slight changes will often affect the fish. On one day in June, in the
writer’s experience, after having no luck till eleven o’clock, the trout
suddenly commenced rising, and kept on without cessation, scarcely
giving time to cast, till two, when they as suddenly stopped. There was
no observable change in the weather, except the advent of a slight haze,
the wind remaining precisely the same. I was much disappointed, not
having half fished the ground and being prevented, by the numbers that
were taken, from casting over some of the largest fish that broke. As
it was, I caught seventy trout in what is ordinarily considered the
worst hours of the day. But in this particular, also, the same rules
apply as to the warmth of the weather. In early spring it is useless to
be up with the lark, even supposing such a bird exists; no fish will
break the water till the sun has warmed the air; but in summer, the dawn
should blush to find the sportsman napping. In fact, trout will not rise
well unless the air is warmer than the water. They do not like to risk
taking cold by exposing themselves to a sudden draught.
There is a very absurd impression, that trout will not take the fly
early in the season; this is entirely unfounded. As soon as the ice
disappears they will be found gambolling in the salt water streams, and
leaping readily at the fly. At such times, on lucky days, immense
numbers are taken. In March they have run up the sluiceways and are in
the lower ponds, lying sullenly in the deepest water; then is the
cow-dung, politely called the dark cinnamon, the most attractive fly. In
April, May and June they are scattered, and entrapped by the hackles,
professor, ibis, and all the medium sized flies. In July and August they
have sought the headwaters of navigation, the cool spring brooks, and
hide around the weeds and water-cresses, whence the midges alone can
tempt them.
Any flies will catch fish, cast in any manner, if the fish are plenty
and in humor to be caught. A few feathers torn from the nearest and
least suspicious chicken, and tied on an ordinary hook with a piece of
thread, will constitute a fly in the imagination of a trout, provided
he follows, as he sometimes appears to do, the advice of the young
folks, shuts his eyes and opens his mouth. I cannot recommend such
tackle, being convinced the most skillfully made is the best; but I do
advise simplicity of color. One of the best of all flies is the female
cow-dung, made of a dark cinnamon color, and after the pattern used in
England; there is a greenish abomination unjustly foisted upon American
invention that is worthless. The hackles are in my opinion altogether
inferior, except the black-winged hackle, which, of a bright warm day,
is irresistible. The ibis and professor, dressed _à l’Américaine_, with
yellow floss body and red tail, are both excellent flies. The coachman
is the best evening fly, and will attract trout long after the angler
can see to strike them, and when the sound of their plunge alone entices
him to continue his efforts. The May and stone flies are good, and of
late years a fly of mixed red and black, with wings, called by some,
from his colors, the devil-fly, has come into vogue. The palmers are
only to be despised and avoided. In summer, of the midges the yellow
sally, the alder fly, the little cinnamon, the black gnat, the black and
red ants, and in fact all others, are attractive. The water is then
covered with myriads of many-colored flies, and there is hardly any
artificial but will find its representative among the real life.
These are but a few of the flies that can be purchased in the shops,
which yearly invent new varieties, regardless of truth to nature or the
recommendations of experience. Many have no names whatever, and in
others the workman has given his fancy such play that they are
unrecognizable. In these pages, when the name is given of any fly
described in Ronald’s “Fly-Fisher’s Entomology,” it is intended that it
shall be dressed after the directions therein contained. A more full
description of the various flies, both in use and to be found in our
waters, will be given hereafter with some directions for tying them; but
a great deal must be left to the practical experience of each fisherman,
according to the range of waters he is in the habit of fishing.
Good luck, that synonym for all the virtues, does not depend so much
upon the kind of flies as the skill in casting, and a poor fly lightly
cast into the right spot will do better execution than the best fly
roughly cast into the wrong place. The lure must be put where the fish
habit, often before their very noses, or they will not take it; and when
they lie, as they generally do in running streams, in the deep holes
under the banks, where the bushes are closest and cause the densest
shade, it requires some skill to cast properly into the exact spot.
Sacrifice everything to lightness in casting; let the line go straight
without a kink if you can, drop the fly into the right ripple if
possible, but it must drop gently on the surface of the water. An ugly
splash of a clear day in pure water, and the prey will dart in every
direction, and the angler’s hopes scatter with them.
A beginner may practise a certain formula, such as lifting the line with
a waive and a smart spring, swinging it backward in a half circle, and
when it is directly behind him, casting straight forward; but as soon as
he has overcome the rudimentary principles, he should cast in every
manner, making the tip of his rod cut full circles, figure eights, and
all other figures, behind him, according to the wind; bearing in mind,
however, ever to make his fly drop as gently as a feather. He should use
his wrist mainly, and practise with each hand, and should never be
otherwise than ashamed of a bungling cast, though he be alone, and none
but the fish there to despise him. If the line falls the first time with
a heart-rending splash all in a tangle, it is useless to make the next
cast properly. The fish have found out the trick, and know too much to
risk their necks in any such a noose.
A skillful fisherman can cast almost any length of line, but
practically, fifty feet, counting from the reel, is all that can be used
to advantage. Some English books say only the leader (gut links) should
alight in the water; but this is nonsense, for at least one half the
line must fall into the water, unless the fisherman stand on a high
bank. With a long line the difficulties of striking and landing the fish
are greatly increased; in striking, there is much slack line to be taken
up; in landing, it requires some time to get the fish under control, and
he is apt to reach the weeds or a stump.
That most excellent fisherman and learned scholar, Dr. Bethune, in his
edition of Walton, Part II., page 73, says that candid anglers must
confess that nine out of ten trout hook themselves; this may be so in
streams teeming with fish, where a dozen start at once, frantically
striving to be the first; but in clear, well-fished streams, not one
fish in a thousand will hook himself; and on Long Island an angler would
grow grey ere he filled his basket if he did not strike, and that
quickly. Striking, to my mind, is by far the most important point, and
hundreds of fish have I seen escape for want of quickness. It must be
done quickly but steadily, and not with a jerk, as the latter is apt, by
the double action of the rod, to bend the tip forward and loosen instead
of tightening the line. There are days when fish cannot be struck,
although they are rising freely; whether they are playing or
over-cautious, I never could determine; whether they are not hungry or
the water is too clear, they put man’s capacities at defiance. Their
appearance must be signalled to the eye, by that reported to the brain,
which then directs the nerves to command the muscles to move the wrist;
and ere this complicated performance is completed, the fish has blown
from his mouth the feathery deception and has darted back to his haunts
of safety. A fish will occasionally leap up, seize the fly, discover the
cheat, and shaking his head, jump several feet along the surface of the
water to rid his mouth of it, and do this so quickly as not to give a
quick angler time to strike. How often fish are caught when they rise
the second time, as then the angler is more on the alert, whereas on the
first rise he was off his guard! How often fish rise when the angler’s
head is turned away from his line, or when he is busy at something else,
and how rarely are they caught! In my experience it is so great a
rarity, that it might almost be said they never hook themselves. In the
language of youth, the only hooking they do is to hook off.
Dr. Bethune, page 97, says the rod should not exceed one pound in
weight. Indeed it should not, and if it does, it exemplifies the old
maxim, so far as to have a fool at one end. If we could fish by steam, a
rod exceeding a pound and measuring over fourteen feet might answer
well, but in these benighted days, while wrists are made of bone,
muscles, cartilages and the like, the lighter the better. A rod, and if
perfection is absolutely indispensable, a cedar rod of eleven or twelve
feet, weighing nine or ten ounces, will catch trout. Cedar rods can only
be obtained in America, and then only on compulsion, but this wood makes
the most elastic rods in the world. They spring instantly to every
motion of the hand, and never warp. They are delicate; the wood is, like
woman, cross-grained, but invaluable if carefully treated. The reel
should be a simple click, never a multiplier, but large barrelled, and
fastened to the but with a leather strap. The line, silk covered with a
preparation of oil, tapered if possible at each end, and thirty to forty
yards long. The basket, positive, a fish-basket; the angler,
comparative, a fisher-man.
Thus equipped, go forth mildly approving where the writer’s opinions
coincide with yours, simply incredulous where they do not. Ere you
begin, however, you may wish to know the size of the fish you can catch,
a matter of no little intricacy, for though we all know the size of the
fish we have ourselves caught, there is always some one else that has
caught larger. My largest trout, at the time this is written, was taken
on the Marshpee River, on Cape Cod, and weighed three pounds and
fourteen ounces. But it is said there were inland brook trout exhibited
at the New York Club by a member in the year 1857, the two largest of
which weighed cleaned six pounds and a half each. “I have my doubts.”
These fish should have weighed, when first taken, nearly eight pounds,
double the size of any trout, other than sea trout, I have ever seen or
before that heard of. In my opinion, they were lake trout, caught,
perhaps, from a small pond, and bright colored. It was claimed they were
taken with the fly, which lake trout will not ordinarily touch; but,
unfortunately, it was also said, that two weighing about five pounds
each were caught and landed on one cast, and that this was done twice.
Now confidence in our neighbors’ truth is the framework of society, but
there is a limit to human credulity, and catching two five pound trout
at one cast, is at the very verge of that limit. No one, except by the
most incredible good fortune, could kill two such fish on any ordinary
fly-tackle, with any ordinary fly-rod. The hooks would almost certainly
tear out, and no strain could possibly be kept on the lower fish, which,
by slacking up his line and then darting away, would probably go free.
But great luck alone could enable a person to land two such fish; the
lower one would never drown, being at perfect liberty--by the by, trout
never die in the water, they always save enough life for one final
rush--and when the upper fish was landed or gaffed, the lower would go
off in a jiffy. When a person claims to do this twice in a day, he must
be pronounced a lucky man indeed.
We caught our big trout in the Marshpee, and we will tell you how we did
it, though the words make us blush as we write them. We were young then,
and it is to be hoped innocent; and having gone to Sandwich, on Cape
Cod, in search of untried fields, discovered a jolly, corpulent
landlord, named Teasedale, who, with his friend, Johnny Trout, so named
jocosely, were the fishermen of the neighborhood. That was before the
stream was preserved for the benefit of the “Poor Indian,” and poorer
fishermen mulcted, as at present, in five dollars a day for the
privilege of fishing. We drove to the stream, almost six miles,
Teasedale enlivening the early June morning with snatches of hunting
songs, and when there plunged recklessly in. Oh! but the water was
cold--a dozen large springs poured in their freezing contents--and the
blood fairly crept back to our hearts. The stream ran through a narrow
defile, overhung with the thickly tangled vine and creepers, rendering a
cast of the line impossible, and had worked its way far under the steep
banks, making dark watery caverns, where the great fish could lie in
wait for their prey. We removed the upper joint of our fly-rod, which
was heavy and strong, and leaving the line through the last ring of the
second joint, we put on a bait next to the fly in beauty and effect, the
minnow. The water was freezing cold--the closely entwined boughs and
leaves shut out the heavens above, and we were alone in the shadowy
darkness with the tenants of the deep. The herring frequented the brook,
and pursued by the large trout, darted in shoals between our feet. It is
always a good sign when the herring are running, and we had excellent
luck.
There are several ways of putting on a minnow, and if a person from
ignorance or necessity must poach, let him poach well. There is the
gorge-hook loaded with lead, the snell passed by the baiting needle at
the mouth of the bait and out at the tail, bringing the hooks which are
double at the mouth. It is highly recommended by some English books and
their American imitators, but in my experience is more useful,
unbaited, for catching snapping mackerel, young blue-fish, than for any
other purpose. There are the gangs of hooks, consisting of two or more
small hooks back to back, one of which is inserted in the side or back
of the bait, with another small one further up on the line, which is
inserted on the lip or nose. It answers well for some kinds of fishing,
and for large bait, but does not work well with small fish. The bait is
not bent sufficiently, and does not spin readily.
Then there is the old-fashioned large single hook, thrust through the
mouth, down the fleshy part of the back and out at the side, or out at
the gills and back through the mouth into the side. The objection is
that bait is apt to work down on the bend of the hook, or the trout is
apt to take off the tail of the bait without being hooked.
The other, and I think the best plan of baiting with dead bait, is the
same as the last, with the addition of a small hook to thrust through
the nose, that tends to retain the fish in its place, and allow the hook
to be carried down further toward the tail, and still make the bait spin
well. Minnow is never properly baited, unless it spins freely with every
motion of the rod, and it must ever be kept moving. Of course the line
must be armed with the swivel-trace, and in baiting with dead minnow a
Limerick hook should be used, when using worms or grasshoppers a hook of
finer wire is better.
The dead minnow is preferable for rapid water. In ponds the minnow
should be alive, in which case the hook is to be inserted in front of
the dorsal fin, and the point may be left under the skin, or exposed,
as the poacher pleases; I prefer it covered. It should not penetrate the
flesh.
In the Marshpee I was using a single hook, keeping the bait well ahead
of me, and creeping cautiously in the freezing water, watching the tiny
float as it danced its merry course along, now borne swiftly over the
rippling current, anon caught in an eddy and returning on its track, and
then again resting motionless in some dark and quiet pool. It was
scarcely visible beneath the dense shadows, and once in a while it would
disappear from my straining sight; then followed a sharp blow with my
rod, a fierce tug, a short fight between fear, despair and cunning on
the one side, and strength, energy and judgment on the other. The prey
once hooked, and skill there was not; it was a mere contention of two
brute forces, in which the weaker went to the basket. An exhibition of
skill or tenderness would have resulted in an entanglement round the
nearest root, and the loss of fish, leader and hook. Still, there was
excitement; the situation was romantic, the narrow gorge, the deep and
rapid stream, the closely matted trees and vines, the ever-changing
surface of the current, which adds beauty to the tamest brook, all
combined to lend enchantment to the scene. The fish were large and
vigorous, fresh run from the sea, where they had, the Winter long, been
a terror to the small fry, and early death to juicy and unsuspicious
shell-fish. They fought fiercely for life and liberty, their homes and
their household gods, and, alas! too often successfully. The risk of
their escape added to the interest of the occasion, and the number of
herring darting past gave continual promise of the presence of their
arch enemy, the trout.
I had half-filled my basket, and had met with wonderful escapes and
terrible heart-rending losses, mingled with exhilarating successes. I
had made about half the distance, as well as we judged, and felt proud
and happy as no king upon his throne ever did or will. My rod, though a
fly-rod, was whipped every few inches with silk, and thus strengthened
had stood the unequal conflict admirably. Still hoping for better
things--who will not hope for the impossible?--I strode on. Below me the
current made a sudden turn at a bend in the stream, and eddied swiftly
under the overhanging bank. The brook almost disappeared in what was
evidently a vast cavern deep in the bowels of that bank. In such watery
palaces, amid the worn rocks, the tangled roots, the undulating moss and
weeds, fierce-eyed, monstrous trout delight to dwell. In such fortresses
they await unwary travellers, and dark deeds are done in the congenial
darkness--outrage, riots and murder stalk boldly about. The migratory
herring, harmless and unsuspicious, peers in and starts affrighted back,
then peers again, at last ventures forward, and then, compelled by
instinct to ascend, tries to dart hastily by; there is a sudden rush, a
frantic struggle, a piteous look entreating mercy of pitiless hearts;
for an instant the water is dyed with blood and then flows on, washing,
all trace of the deed away.
I approach the den carefully, the feather-like float dancing merrily far
ahead over the rippling tide, and as the line is paid out, swaying from
side to side, close in front of the roots that fringe the bank, still
not a sign; a step forward--the water carries it under the bank out of
sight. I stand still, expectant; nothing yet; I creep cautiously to the
very bank, and thrust my rod in the water, aye, under the bank its full
length. What’s that! Ah! what a tug! I have him, the monster, the Giant
Despair of the wayfaring herring. How he pulls! I must have him out of
his retreat; it is a great risk but my only chance. I strain my rod, my
line, almost my arms, to the utmost; he comes, disdainful of
surreptitious advantages, relying on his great strength; he has not
taken protection of weed or stump. Now, my boy, do your utmost; yes,
leap from the water, dart down with the current; I must give to you a
little; no line can stand that strain; but you will never reach your
lair again. Turn about, head up stream, that is what I want; there is a
sandy bank above us, can I but reach it and land you there. Ah! you
perceive the danger or have changed your mind; how you fly down stream
with the slackened line hissing through the water behind you. Well, go,
you will soon turn again. Already, beautiful, you have passed the bank;
now, rod, be true; line, do your duty. The pliant ash bends, the upper
joint has passed below the but in a wide hoop. He comes, his head is up;
if I can but keep it out of water! he dashes the foaming waves with his
strong tail; one more effort; bend rod, but do not break; he is out of
water; I have him. He is dancing on the yellow sand his last dance in
mortal form; his changing hues glancing in the mild light, his fierce
mouth gasping, his bright sides befouled with sand and dust, his
glittering scales torn off by the sharp stones. His efforts grow
fainter, the flashing eye dims, a few convulsive throes and he is quiet;
the grim hand of death has pressed upon him.
He is indeed the prince of monsters, the paragon of giants; so thick, so
deep, with so small a head for so large a body; such brilliant hues: the
fins so red, the blue and carmine spots so numerous and delicate. I wash
him off and stand gazing at him in my hand regardless of further sport.
I have captured the king, and care not to follow his subalterns. I lay
him gently in my basket; he will not lie at full length. I cover him
with moss, filling the little room left, and forcing my way through the
overhanging bushes, and, reaching the broad light of day, proudly await
the arrival of my companion. Then the moss is carefully removed, and the
beauties of my darling are unveiled, and flash and gleam in the
sunlight.
There are several ways of landing a trout, but not all equally
sportsmanlike. Large trout may be gaffed, small ones landed in a net,
and where neither of these means is at hand, they must be dragged out of
water, or flirted up among the bushes, according to the taste of the
angler and the strength of his tackle.
A tyro was once fishing on the same boat with me, using bait, when he
struck his first trout. One can imagine how entirely misspent had been
his previous existence, when it is said he had never taken a trout, no,
nor any other fish before. It was not a large fish; such luck rarely
falls to the share of the beginner, and in spite of what elderly
gentlemen may say to the contrary, an ignorant countryman, with his
sapling rod and coarse tackle, never takes the largest fish nor the
greatest in quantity. Were it otherwise, sportsmen had better turn
louts, and tackle makers take to cutting straight saplings in the woods.
My companion, nevertheless, was not a little surprised at the vigorous
rushes the trout made to escape, but his line being strong and rod
stiff, he steadily reeled him in. Great was the excitement; his whole
mind was devoted to shortening the line, regardless of what was to be
done next. We had a darkey named Joe with us to row the boat and land
the fish, and our luck having been bad during the morning, he was
delighted at this turn of affairs, and ready, net in hand, to do his
duty. The fish was being reeled up, till but a few feet of the line
remained below the top, when, with a shout of “land, Joe, land him,” my
companion suddenly lifted tip his rod, carrying the trout far above our
heads. There it dangled, swaying to and fro, bouncing and jumping, while
the agonized fisherman besought the darkey to land him, and the latter,
reaching up as far as he could with the net, his eyes starting out of
his head with wonder at this novel mode of proceeding, came far short of
his object. Never was seen such a sight; the hopeless despair of my
friend, the eagerness of the darkey, who fairly strove to climb the rod
as the fish danced about far out of reach. What was to done? The line
would not render, the rod was so long we could not reach the tip in the
boat; and the only horrible alternative appeared to be my friend’s
losing his first fish. The latter, however, by this remarkable course of
treatment, had grown peaceable, and when he was dropped back into the
water, made but feeble efforts, while my companion, as quietly as he
could, worked out his line till he could land him like a Christian.
Great were the rejoicings when the prize earned with so much anxiety was
secured. That is the way not to land a trout.
One afternoon of a very boisterous day, I struck a large fish at the
deep hole in the centre of Phillipse’s Pond, on Long Island. He came out
fiercely, and taking my fly as he went down, darted at once for the
bottom, which is absolutely covered with long, thick weeds. The moment
he found he was struck, he took refuge among them, and tangled himself
up so effectually that I could not feel him, and supposed he had
escaped. By carefully exerting sufficient force, however, the weeds were
loosened from the bottom, and the electric thrill of his renewed motion
was again perceptible. He was allowed to draw the line through the weeds
and play below them, as by so doing they would give a little, while if
confined in them he would have a leverage against them, and could, with
one vigorous twist, tear out the hook. When he was somewhat exhausted,
the question as to the better mode of landing him arose. The wind was
blowing so hard as to raise quite a sea, which washed the weeds before
it in spite of any strain that could be exerted by the rod, and drifted
the boat as well, rendering the latter almost unmanageable, while the
fish was still so vigorous as to threaten at every moment to escape. I
besought the boatman, who was an old hand and thoroughly up to his
business, to drop the boat down to the weeds and let me try and land my
fish with one hand while holding the rod with the other. He knew the
dangers of such a course, and insisted upon rowing slowly and carefully
for shore at a shallow place sheltered from the wind, although I greatly
feared the hook would tear out or the rod snap under the strain of
towing both weeds and fish; once near shore, he deliberately forced an
oar into the mud and made the boat fast to it, and then taking up the
net, watched for a favorable chance. He waited for some time, carefully
putting the weeds aside, until a gleaming line of silver glanced for a
moment beneath the water, when darting the net down, he as suddenly
brought it up, revealing within its folds the glorious colors of a
splendid trout. That was the way to land a trout under difficulties,
although I still think I could have done it successfully by myself.
Generally, the utmost delicacy should be shown in killing a fish, but
there are times when force must be exerted. If the fish is making for a
stump, or even weeds, he must be stopped at any reasonable risk of the
rod’s breaking or the fly’s tearing out. A stump is the most dangerous;
one turn round that, and he is off, leaving your flies fast probably in
a most inconvenient place and many feet below the surface of the water.
But remember the oft-repeated maxim of a friend of the writer’s, who has
been with him many a joyous fishing day, that “One trout hooked is worth
a dozen not hooked.” Small trout are more apt to escape than large ones,
because the skin round the mouth of the latter is tougher. With either,
however, there is risk enough, the hook is small, and often takes but a
slight hold; the gut is delicate, and frequently half worn through by
continual casting.
Fish are, in a majority of instances, hooked in the corner of the upper
jaw, where there is but a thin skin to hold them; by long-continued
struggle, the hole wears larger, and finally, to the agony of the
fisherman, the hook slips out.
There are occasions when force must be exerted, and then good tackle and
a well-made rod will repay the cost. At dusk one night I cautiously
approached the edge of a newly-made pond that was as full of stumps as
of fish, both being about the extreme limit, and casting into the clear
water, struck a fine fish of three-quarters of a pound. Not one minute’s
grace did he receive, but I lugged and he fought, and after a general
turmoil I succeeded in bringing him to land, in spite of weeds and
stumps and twigs, which he did his best to reach. The same was done with
seven fish after a loss of only three flies, and with a rod that weighed
but eight ounces.
A rod is not so apt to break from a fair strain as from a short twist;
of course, if you strike a large fish as you raise to cast, or catch in
the bushes behind you when your line is extended, any rod may break.
This, however, rarely happens, and you are as likely to break the tip by
trying to pull the line through the rings with your hand, or by lifting
a small trout out of water and swinging it in past you, as in any other
way. In drawing a fish to shore when you have no landing net, step back
and bring the strain evenly on your rod, and it will rarely give way. If
you find the fish takes down the current and you are unable to hold him,
follow him if you can, and if not, point your rod toward him and bring
the strain on the line. The hook may tear out, or the gut may break, or
even the line may be lost, but you will save your rod, while otherwise
you would probably lose both.
In landing a fish, wait till he is pretty well exhausted, bring his
mouth above water and keep it there till he is drawn into the net, and
warn your assistant to remove the net at once if he gets his head down.
By diving after him with the net, the assistant would certainly not
catch the fish and might tangle one of your other flies. The fish should
be led into the net, and the latter kept as still as possible; he knows
as well as you do what it is for, and if his attention is drawn to it,
will dart off as madly as ever.
There are occasions and situations where a fly cannot be used, and a
minnow--called down East, from the Indian name mummychog, a
mummy--cannot be obtained. In such cases it becomes necessary to fall
back upon first principles. A grasshopper, twitched along the surface of
the water in a way called skittering, is an effective bait, although an
imitation grasshopper, as well as an imitation minnow, does not answer
and will not deceive trout. Salmon and trout roe are used, and it is
said, contrary to the writer’s experience, with great success. Gentles,
which are grubs hatched in meat that has been fly-blown, are a favorite
bait in Europe; but, in spite of their beautiful name, are horrible
objects and not in vogue with us. Caddies, or the larvæ of the
_Phryganidæ_ in their cases, are also in use there, but not here. We
must, therefore, have recourse to the angleworm.
The finest worms are to be found in tanyards; they should be placed on
the top of damp moss, left for a night or two to work themselves clean,
and then placed in other moss sprinkled with milk. They become strong,
light colored and lively, and should be threaded on a fine hook by
passing the point in at the head of the worm and out half-way down the
side; then in, half up the side of another, and forced nearly to the
head. Worms, if cast as in fly-fishing, are very attractive, and will
frequently kill an immense number of fish. There is much skill in
casting so as not to tear off the bait, and yet to cover an extent of
water.
In rapid streams, whether with bait or fly, always fish down stream;
there is less noise, the line is kept taught, the fly looks more
natural, and unless the wind is strong against you, it will be much
easier and pleasanter fishing. Move the bait continually; keep it in
motion under all circumstances; this is the great secret of
bait-fishing.
I have also heard of shrimp preserved in whisky being used, and think
they might answer for fish that have just run from the salt water; but
as frequent experiment with the live shrimp has proved their inferiority
to minnow, I have little faith in them.
The trout is admitted to be the most beautiful of all our fish; not so
large nor powerful as the salmon, he is much more numerous, abounding in
all the brooks and rivulets of our northern States. He lives at our very
doors; in the stream that meanders across yon meadow, where the
haymakers are now busy with their scythes, we have taken him in our
early days; down yonder in that wood, there is a brook filled with
bright, lively little fellows; and away over there we know of pools
where there are splendid ones. Who has not said or thought such words
as he stood in the bright summer’s day under the grateful shade of the
piazza running round the old country house where he played, a boy?
He does not make the nerves thrill and tingle like the salmon, he does
not leap so madly into the air nor make such fierce, resolute rushes, he
has not the silver sides nor the great strength; but he is beautiful as
the sunset sky, brave as bravery itself, and is our own home darling.
How he flashes upon the sight as he grasps the spurious insect, and
turns down with a quick little slap of the tail! How he darts hither and
thither when he finds he is hooked! How persistently he struggles till
enveloped in the net! And then with what heart-rending sighs he breathes
away his life!
There is no fish like him. Lay your prize on a bed of moss, which is his
natural resting-place; look at the exquisite hues like shotten silk, the
dark spots, the carmine specks, the single first white ray in his fins,
and the rich red of the second extending to the lower edge of the
abdomen; the greenish-mottled back, the silver below--what a picture for
the painter, if his brush could catch the evanescent tints. How proudly
and fondly we gaze on our beautiful prize, not with the mere rude,
brutal pride in securing so much booty, such a sum in money value, or a
delightful dish for the table, but with an affectation that is hard to
explain to those who are not anglers. The sportsman is more fond of the
game he pursues and more anxious to preserve it from destruction than
the most pretentious humanitarian of animal worshippers. The angler is
proverbially the most gentle of men, he is fond of nature, peaceable,
contemplative, patient; he admires the grandeur of the woods, the
rugged strength of the rocks, and the changing splendor of the sky. He
listens with pleasure to the murmur of the brook, the songs of the
birds, and the rustle of the wind.
The man who kills to kill, who is not satisfied with reasonable sport,
who slays unfairly or out of season, who adds one wanton pang, that man
receives the contempt of all good sportsmen and deserves the felon’s
doom. Of such there are but few.
“We seek this, our favorite fish, in early Spring, when the ice has just
melted, and the cold winds remind one forcibly of bleak December, and
when we find him in the salt water streams, especially of Long Island
and Cape Cod; but we love most to follow him in the early Summer, along
the merry streams of old Orange, or the mountain brooks of Sullivan
County. Where the air is full of gladness, and the trees are heavy with
foliage--where the birds are singing upon every bough, and the grass is
redolent of violets and early flowers. There we wade the cold brooks,
the leafy branches bowing us a welcome as we pass--the water rippling
over the hidden rocks, and telling us, in its wayward way, of the fine
fish it carries in its bosom. With creel upon our shoulder and rod in
hand, we reck not of the hours, and only when the sinking sun warns of
the approaching darkness, do we seek, with sharpened appetite, the
hospitable country inn, and the comfortable supper that our prey will
furnish forth.
The brooks of Long Island, especially on the southern shore, abound with
trout. But they are few in comparison with the hordes that once swarmed
in the streams of Sullivan and Orange counties, and in fact all the
lower tier of counties in this State, before the Erie Railroad was
built, and opened the land to the crowd of market men. I am proud to say
I have travelled that country when it took the stage coach twelve hours
to go twenty-four miles, and when, if we were in a hurry, we walked, and
sent our baggage by the coach. Now you are jerked along high above our
favorite meadows, directly through our wildest hills, and often under
our best streams, at the rate of forty miles an hour, and yet people
call that an improvement. As well might you lug a man out of bed at
night, drag him a dozen times round his room, and fling him back into
bed, and say he was improved by the operation. No one wants to be lugged
out of bed, precisely as no one wanted to travel beyond Sullivan County;
the best shooting and fishing in the world was to be found there.
When the railroad was first opened, the country was literally overrun,
and Bashe’s Kill, Pine Kill, the Sandberg, the Mon Gaup and Callicoon,
and even Beaver Kill, which we thought were inexhaustible, were fished
out. For many years trout had almost ceased from out of the waters, but
the horrible public, having their attention drawn to the Adirondacks,
gave it a little rest, and now the fishing is good.
If you go there, stop at George Durrance’s, in Wurtsborough, and if he
boasts of fishing, as he will,[2] ask him whether he remembers going to
the Sandberg one day, many years ago, to show a Yorker how to catch
trout.
It was a bright sunshiny day, and as we drove up to the edge of the
bank, above a clear, rapid, sparkling stream, I saw a large trout leap
heavily out of water, where the current swept with a swirl past a high
rock. As I rigged up my flies, George borrowed my knife to cut a pole,
as he did not have much faith in “them things,” and while he was gone, I
crept cautiously up behind the rock, and cast over the further
projecting point. I could not see my flies alight, but heard a splash,
and striking felt I had a splendid fish. He fought bravely, but by
keeping him in the upper part of the pool, the lower end by the rock,
was not disturbed. After some trouble, I landed him, having no net. Then
approaching the rock with the same caution, the performance was
repeated, only this time my rod was broken in endeavoring to land the
fish, and it was necessary to find George and obtain my knife.
I discovered him under the bushes on the bank, in a miserable state--it
was oppressively hot--his rod was a long sapling, and naturally
heavy--the sky and water were clear, and the fish would not touch the
worm, which we could see from where he sat. He had only taken two
miserable little fish. He did no better all day, and while I rose and
killed fish after fish, he did not take another one. When afternoon
came, and he impatiently urged me away, my basket was so full it broke
down, and he had his two fish. On reaching his house, the boys spread
our respective takes out on a board, and to George’s deep chagrin
exhibited them to the entire village. He has not taught a “Yorker” how
to catch trout since.
So much for your countryman, with his bed-cord for line and stick for
pole, and yet George was admitted to be the best fisherman in that
neighborhood. A person residing near a stream, and having fished it from
infancy, and acquainted with its every pool, has an immense advantage
over a stranger; but there was only one countryman ever beat me
trout-fishing, and he, after taking me to the stream, slipped off and
waded it down ahead of me.
All the streams that, taking their rise in or near this State, flow into
the Delaware or Susquehanna, are filled with trout; the Tobyhanna, the
Bushkill, Broadhead’s Creek and a thousand others, that the Erie and
Lackawanna railroads now make easy of access. While Hamilton County,
Essex, the region of the Adirondacks, Clinton County with its Chateaugay
and Chazy Lakes, and the Saranac River, and Franklin County with its
innumerable ponds, offer all the sport that the heart of man can desire.
All the streams of New England, especially in the neighborhood of the
White Mountains, are filled with small trout; while the State of Maine,
in Moosehead Lake, the Kennebec, and its other fine rivers and lakes,
affords the finest brook trout-fishing in the world.
The angler may, therefore, seek his darling close to his own
summer-house, or may drop in at any of the many well kept taverns on the
south side of Long Island, where he will find every comfort and most of
the luxuries of the day, will meet other enthusiastic fishermen, who
will relate varied and interesting experiences, and exchange views and
fancies with him, and will prove themselves, if real fishermen, the most
obliging and unselfish gentlemen in the world; or he may seek the lonely
hotel at Lake Pleasant or Moosehead Lake, where he will still find
comfort in a rougher way, and wonderful good sport; or he may boldly
strike out into the trackless woods, commit himself to his birch canoe
and trusty guide, and then, if he be made of the right stuff, I promise
him such happiness as he will never forget--merry innocent days and
dreamless nights, health in every limb, and contentment in his mind.[3]
There is no fish more difficult to catch, nor that gives the true angler
more genuine sport than the trout. His capture requires the nicest
tackle, the greatest skill, the most complete self-command, the highest
qualities of mind and body. The arm must be strong that wields the rod;
the eye true that sees the rise; the wrist quick that strikes at the
instant; the judgment good, that selects the best spot, the most
suitable fly, and knows just how to kill the fish. A fine temper is
required to bear up against the loss of a noble fish, and patient
perseverance to conquer ill luck.
Hence it is that the fisherman is so proud of his basket of a dozen
half-pound trout, he feels that any one more awkward or less resolute
could not have done so well. He feels conscious that he does not owe his
success to mere luck, but has deserved the glory. He feels that he has
elevated himself by the very effort. Do not suppose I mean that there is
no skill in other fishing; there is in all, even in catching a minnow
for bait, but most of all in trout-fishing.
CHAPTER III.
SEA TROUT.
_Salmo Trutta Marina--Salmon Trout--White Trout._
This fish corresponds precisely with the description given by Dr. De Kay
of the Speckled Trout, _Salmo Fontinalis_, except in the following
particulars:
I can find no teeth in the vomer or central part of the roof of the
mouth any more than I can find them on the common brook trout, and I
have examined great numbers of the latter for the purpose. The pectorals
are nearly a transparent white, slightly tinged with red at the origin
of the rays, except that the second ray is darkish. The first ray of the
ventrals is yellow, the second dark, the third and the others orange
fading into white; the origin of the ventrals is directly under that of
the first dorsal. The first ray of the anal fin is orange, the second
and others dark green, growing lighter toward the tail, the origin of
the second and third rays being yellowish. The scales are very small,
imbedded in the skin, and there are neither scales nor defined spots on
the gill-covers. The fin-rays are as follows:
Br. 12; D. 13; P. 13; V. 8; A. 10; C. 19-6/6.
The branchial rays seem to differ sometimes, the same fish having eleven
on one side and twelve on the other, and the highest one is a half ray
or small plate. The anal, properly speaking, has eleven rays, but the
first is so delicate and so lost in the fleshy part of the fin, that it
is hardly distinguishable.
The coloring of these fish differs greatly from that of the common
trout, but it is universally conceded that color is no test or
distinction of species. When fresh run from the sea, and when still
inhabiting the salt water, they are gloriously brilliant; their backs a
liquid bluish green, the under part flashing like molten silver. The
spots and scarlet specks on their sparkling sides are of a purer tone,
and the lower fins more slender and delicate.
They are found in the bays of Prince Edward’s Island, in the harbors of
New Brunswick, and in all the gulf and river of St. Lawrence and its
lower tributaries. In Frank Forrester’s “Fish and Fishing,” a letter
from Mr. Perley, the British Commissioner of Fisheries, is quoted, page
123, in which he says these fish do not ascend into purely fresh water.
In this I am reluctantly, out of respect to his great experience as a
fisherman and high standing in scientific attainments, compelled to
differ from him. I have unquestionably taken these fish far above tide
water, and have the best authority for saying that usually, if not
invariably, the larger trout at least ascend to the head-waters of the
mountain streams to spawn. I venture to say that no large sea trout are
taken in the tide water after the last, and rarely after the first of
August. It is probable that he has been misled by the fact that there
are trout in the same streams that never descend to the sea, and there
is a marked difference in color between them and their brethren,
although I believe they are the same fish. For the correctness of these
views, reference can be made to the experience of many authorities that
would be satisfactory to one that I esteem and respect as much as I do
my excellent friend and brother of the angle, Mr. Perley. While
mentioning his name, it will not be amiss to tender him, in the name of
the fishermen of the United States, our thanks and grateful
acknowledgments for the invariable kindness, courtesy and good humor
with which he has answered the numerous questions entailed upon him by
his mention in Frank Forrester’s “Fish and Fishing,” and the valuable
aid and advice he has furnished the wanderers from the States in their
search for piscatorial happiness. Combining as he does the heartiness of
an Englishman with the sociability of our own country, we are proud to
claim him, while he remains in our vicinity, as half an American. But
let me, at the same time, suggest to my countrymen, that there is a
limit even to the best of tempers, and that, although each one may only
put a few questions and take up a little valuable time, the total
combined may be annoying, inconvenient, and even excessively
burdensome.[4]
In addition to the positive fact of taking sea trout above tide water,
it is to be remarked as a habit of all trout to ascend in summer to the
cool sources of the springy brooks, and our common trout will invariably
be found, after the warm weather is at its height, either in the
rivulets that feed the ponds where they dwell in winter, or at the
head-waters of the ponds. The sun’s rays are so powerful that they
affect any sheet of open water, especially the harbors and bays of the
ocean, and the fish will not live there, but withdraw to cooler regions.
A remarkable case of this kind fell under the writer’s observation at
Masapequa Pond, which is universally admitted to be the best preserve on
Long Island. It is rather small, and quite shallow except in the
channel, and being entirely unsheltered, is liable to become heated in
hot weather. The spring had been remarkably mild, and in the middle of
May, after a number of days that reminded one of June, I visited
Masapequa, and, although the weather was favorable and a lively ripple
darkened the water, only two trout were killed in the entire morning. I
was much discouraged and surprised, until happening to get my flies
caught, I put my hand into the water and found it milk-warm. The
explanation was simple, and I at once told the proprietor, who had been
more astounded than myself, that the fish had run out of the pond into
the brook; and there, sure enough, we shortly discovered them lying in
the deep pools in shoals.
If they cannot retire to cool, fresh, aërated water, they will perish,
as happened one dry, warm season in a pond at Oyster Bay, which,
although well filled with trout, had no extensive head-waters. The fish
crowded round the flume, hardly disturbed by being touched with a stick,
remaining motionless, and evidently suffering. They died and were picked
up by scores.
If sea trout do not ascend the fresh streams, where do they spawn? From
the habits of all the salmon tribe, we know they must have a current of
pure and cool water to vivify the eggs, and they certainly cannot find
this along the shores and bays. Their eggs must be deposited on a
gravelly bed and not on sand, and as the bottom of the salt water, which
is purely sand, even if appropriate spawning ground, is peopled with all
sorts, shapes and sizes of creeping, crawling and burrowing things, from
sand-worms to sea-eggs, the spawn would be utterly destroyed long before
it could come to maturity. If, in spite of all these difficulties, the
eggs should hatch, the young fry being entirely helpless for thirty
days, and little able to take care of themselves afterward, would be
annihilated by their elder brethren or the first sea fish that came
along. Young trout, in their appropriate localities, hide carefully in
little spring rills and close along shore for months after they are
hatched, and not till well grown and active do they trust themselves in
the deeper places among the larger fish. Nature has taught them that the
latter have an excessive fondness for them.
Whether sea trout spawn earlier than brook trout, I do not know, but
very possibly they may, as in cooler countries fish usually spawn
earlier than in warmer ones. However, in August the roe is not developed
to any great extent; no more so, apparently, than with us, and, although
the Canadian Winter sets in earlier than ours, trout do not fear the
cold. The regions they inhabit being extremely difficult of access in
the freezing season, this question may remain some time unsolved.
Whether sea trout should be ranked as a distinct species, or whether
there are any different species of trout in America, has been a serious
question. It is a great misfortune that every naturalist, in his eager
endeavor to discover new species and originate new names, has caught at
the slightest distinctions in appearance, which are often only due to
food or water, and has immediately dubbed the fish a knight and endowed
him with a new name--frequently some horrible Latin perversion of his
own. Real distinctions are those permanent ones that no change of food
and water can affect, nor the chance influence of a few shell-fish or a
muddy bottom. There are distinctions between these trout and brook
trout, of color, comparative size of different parts of the body,
formation of the head and fins; but not more so than one often meets
with in fishing any of the streams of Long Island that communicate with
the sea, or even in the different streams of the wild woods. The sea
trout of Canada certainly do far excel the ordinary trout in size, being
taken, with the fly, weighing nine pounds, and the ordinary average
being from three to four; but otherwise they seem to have no permanent
peculiarity that should distinguish them from the common brook trout.
All other distinctions fade after the trout have been for some time in
fresh water, and a late run of sea trout differs far more from those
which have ascended the streams a month earlier than the latter from the
brook trout. Indeed, some sea trout have become domesticated in the
fresh water, and never returning to the sea, have settled down, although
often of great size, into the ordinary trout.
In Stump Pond, on Long Island, and the adjacent waters, are four
different varieties of trout: the old-fashioned Stump Pond Trout,[5]
with a black mouth, a long, thin body, a big head, and a wolfish,
hungry look; the Salt Water Trout, with a small, sleepy head, a deep
body, and a rich coloring, small fins and red flesh; the Brook Trout,
long, narrow, brightly marked, gracefully shaped and lively; and a trout
which has appeared in a new pond, scarcely yet completed, with a dark,
strong coloring, very black on the back, a thick, stout body, and a well
proportioned head. Any one can distinguish these fish at a glance, but
must they each have a different name, and a Latin one at that?
The fresh run sea trout of the North have beautiful silver sides, almost
as bright as a salmon’s, and in this particular, at least, differ from
the salt water loving trout of Long Island and Cape Cod. Their heads are
small, delicate, and exquisitely shaped, and their lower fins are small
and almost transparent. The heads of the males are larger, and the lower
jaw more hooked than those of the female, and these differences increase
as the spawning season advances. The head of the female bears a
comparison to that of a modest, refined lady, while that of the male
resembles the big head and ugly jaw of the struggling, quarrelling, but
protecting man. At times their flesh is a bright red, often a dull
yellow and rarely whitish. The shape of their bodies is graceful and
broad across the back, to a greater degree in both particulars than the
sea run trout of Long Island and Massachusetts. But as they ascend the
rivers, and after they have been some time in their new abode, these
peculiarities diminish, the color of their backs turns from a beautiful
green to a dull black, the splendor of their silvery sides fades, and
the heavy spots and roseate tinge appear; their translucent fins grow
opaque and strong from greater use in the swift current; their shape
even seems to alter, and they are altogether unlovely by comparison with
their former selves. Are they, therefore, “like Cerberus, three
gentlemen at once,” and entitled to three distinct appellations, or are
they simply our dearly loved old friends, the _Speckled Trout_?
The change in appearance of these fish cannot be explained by the
suggestion that the ordinary brook trout ascend the rivers and mingle
with those of the sea, because the latter are to be caught in every
stage, from the brilliancy of the fresh river fish to the dull colors of
the oldest inhabitant. And it will be noticed that at the heads of the
rivers a bright-colored fish is rarely met with, although they must be,
with few exceptions, all sea trout.
The best trout rivers of Canada are troublesome to reach, difficult to
ascend, and seldom attempted by any but the salmon fisher. To the
latter, the trout, attractive as he seems to us, is a trial and a
nuisance. Abundant and voracious, he often rushes in advance of the
lordly salmon, seizes the fly, and then discovering his mistake, by his
struggles disturbs the pool, ruffles the fisherman’s temper, and
frightens the larger game from its equanimity. He is therefore little
noticed by the frequenters of the headwaters, except to be denounced,
and his delicate peculiarities seldom considered and less esteemed. He
is principally sought in the tide water along the shores, or from boats
in the open bays, but rarely followed to his summer home. The
statements, therefore, of Canadian fishermen with regard to him must be
cautiously received and carefully weighed; their experience may not have
been sufficiently extended.
Whatever be his name, he is a beauty, the fairest of the children of the
sea. There are others of more variegated colors, of gaudier hues, of
more slender shape, but the trout is lord of all. He is the pet of the
true fisherman, whether taken by the name of _Salmo trutta_ in the bays
of Canada, weighing over ten pounds, or as _Salmo fontinalis_, in the
mountain streams of Vermont, reaching not one quarter as many ounces. In
Canada, sportsmen--and none others seem to fish--take the sea trout
solely with the fly. In June, and earlier, they are found in the tide
waters, and there prefer gaudy flies. The scarlet ibis, or curry-curry
of South America, dressed as it is ordinarily done, or diversified by a
little gold or silver tinsel wound round the body, or indeed the entire
hook wound with tinsel alone, is by many preferred to all other flies;
but the red hackle, the golden pheasant, the professor, the grey drake,
and in fact any gay fly, will meet with approval. A much admired fly is
made of a red body and yellow wings; but the more sober colors must not
be forgotten nor neglected, they are often more successful than their
gaudy relations. As the season advances, and the fish ascend the clear,
cool rivers, especially if the water be low and the weather dry, the
sober flies are preferable. Then the cow-dung, the alder-fly, the
turkey-brown, the winged black hackle, and in fact all the ordinary
flies, are in demand; a fly invented by myself, of a blackbird’s wing
and a claret body and legs, and called the early fly, has often proved
itself uncommonly killing; and indeed all the flies usually employed in
other waters are appropriate for the sea trout in Canada.
Neither does the size of hook differ from that ordinarily in use; it
should average about a number nine, with a few somewhat larger for rough
water. It is rarely desirable, on account of the enormous size of the
fish, to use more than one fly at a time, and generally the trout will
soon remove the difficulty by reducing them to that number; but at
times, when fish are shy, they seem to be attracted by seeing several.
In order to kill the largest possible quantity, without any regard to
humanity or sportsmanship, a heavy fly-rod is desirable, as much time is
lost in landing them with a delicate rod.
For many hundred miles below Quebec, the majestic St. Lawrence rolls its
transparent waters in a steady surge toward the ocean. Forward and
backward heaves the mighty tide, piling up the waters eighteen and
twenty feet; but the steady current keeps on its course toward the gulf.
Into this wonderful stream, that can only be likened to an arm of the
sea, at every few miles debouches from the granite hills a river, more
or less extensive and more or less rocky and turbulent. These rivers
rise on the mountain tops, cold and clear, and thunder down over falls
and rapids, through chasms and gorges split in the eternal rock, till
they leap, tumble or crawl into that outlet of a thousand lakes, the
highway of the Canadas.
These streams the salmon and trout ascend, there to disport themselves,
there to make love, prepare their nests, and perpetuate their species.
The water is cool, running from the frigid regions of the north or
supplied by icy springs, and the bottom offers every variety of
spawning beds. There is the stony pool for the salmon, the pebbly one
for the trout, and never do the two spawn, and rarely even live, in the
same. The pool where the salmon lie is deep and rapid, with a bottom
composed of dark limestones averaging about the size of a bantam’s egg.
While the trout hide in a sluggish pool, and often one worn away by the
water and hollowed from a clay bank. It is a tradition, but one by no
means well substantiated, that trout never eat young salmon, nor salmon
young trout. As trout are more fond of their own species than almost any
other delicacy, it is not probable they would be fastidious about
swallowing a nice, juicy little salmon.
The country through which these streams run is very peculiar: rough
hills of granite rise almost perpendicularly from the edge of the water,
many hundred and sometimes many thousand feet. Their sides are bare and
bleak, and if adorned at all with verdure, it is with a stunted pine and
spruce, that only half hides the white rock beneath. The streams wind in
tortuous course among the crags, and slowly gain a high elevation. These
bare, unprofitable hills extend back from the north shore of the St.
Lawrence as far as the foot of man has penetrated, and only at long
intervals by the shore of some of the larger rivers, where forty
centuries of storms have worn away and washed the detritus from the
mountain into some little bay, have half civilized beings been enabled
to build rough cabins and glean a scanty subsistence. Thus are these
waters, the home and nursery of the trout and salmon, protected forever
by nature against the pervading destructiveness of man. Judicious laws
have been passed and will be enforced by the Canadian government, and
the American fisherman may find in neighboring waters what he will never
again see in his own, these noble fish dwelling in abundance, and
protected from worthless, wanton and unreasonable destruction.
It is a burning shame, a foul blot on the character of Americans, and
tarnish on their reputation for far-sighted economy, that their only
idea of the treatment of the wild game of the woods and waters seems to
be total annihilation. “After me a desert,” is their motto; and they
never rest till, by planting snares and liming streams, they have caught
the last partridge and poisoned the last fish. Thus have they already
destroyed one of the most valuable resources of the country; the Hudson,
the Connecticut, the Penobscot, and even the Kennebec, yield no more
salmon, and we yearly pay to Canada enormous sums for what we once had,
and might still have, in plenty on our own shores. Not many years ago a
person buying shad on the Connecticut River was required to take such a
proportion of salmon. Now that the head-waters are covered with
tanneries and saw-mills, and are crossed by dams without the simple
expedient of a flume that the fish could ascend, and now that early
salmon are worth a dollar a pound in New York market, where are the
former denizens of the Connecticut?
All the timber cut on the streams would not pay for the damage done to
the fisheries. In Canada the people have discovered, fortunately for
them not too late, the importance of stringent protective laws. The nets
can only be set within a certain distance, and cannot extend across the
entire stream. In Lower Canada the net fishing terminates on the first
day of August, and the rod fishing on the fifteenth of September, and
spearing, the most cruel, unprofitable and injurious mode of
destruction, is forbidden altogether.
About one hundred and twenty miles below Quebec the wondrous Saguenay
pours its dark waters and fierce current into the placid bosom of the
St. Lawrence. It is one of the natural wonders of our still new and
scarcely explored country. Hills rise a thousand feet sheer up, and its
waters descend a thousand feet deep at their base. The St. Lawrence, at
its mouth, is only some thirty feet deep, but the bottom suddenly
descends at the entrance to the Saguenay, and becomes from five hundred
to a thousand feet in depth. The breadth of the Saguenay is so great
that the grandeur of the mountains is lost to the eye, and the scenery
is remarkable more for ruggedness than beauty. At the mouth of this
river was the first station of the Hudson Bay Company, a little village
called Tadousac, which is pronounced with the emphasis on the last
syllable, and in that village stands the mission church of the Jesuits,
the oldest in the country.
Close to Tadousac, and almost adjoining at the back, is a still smaller
village called L’Anse à l’Eau, and although great ships no longer lie at
Tadousac, and the houses are fast falling to decay, and the good men of
the olden days have long gone their last journey, and the trappers are
never more seen around the famous station, and the glory of the Hudson
Bay Company has departed, the trout and salmon coast along the rocks
and visit the inlets as they did when priests promenaded the natural
terraces of Tadousac, and when the shortest road to the Northwest was up
the Saguenay River. The trout care not though the iron horse has sprung
two great leaps across the water that they live in, and know not that a
woman, the only Catholic that can read, officiates as high priest in the
sanctum of the woman-haters, the mission church of the Jesuits.
The St. Lawrence abounds with most delicious food for trout; there are
acres of small fish; the sand eels crowd the bays yards deep, the
sardines, the mullet, the capelin, the tommy cods, push and jostle their
way along, while shellfish innumerable cover the sandy bottom. Flies
swarm on the water, and the deep rivers in Winter and the cool streams
in Summer constitute the paradise of the _salmonidæ_.
Along the shores of the tide water, early in Spring the trout and salmon
make their appearance, and wandering about pass the merry days of May,
June and July in feasting and junketing, in visiting new scenes and
tasting every variety of food, till instinct warns them the waters are
falling, and they must hasten to their sylvan bowers and enjoy the
pleasures of love and paternity. Then slowly, the largest first, they
leave the tide waters and swarm up all the practicable streams, running
the rapids and steadily advancing to their pebbly spawning beds, which
kind nature appears to have prepared in the heart of these impassable
mountains for their especial protection. Through all this season, June,
July and August, the fishing is magnificent; they are in great numbers,
and of immense size; but after they have once left the salt water, the
angler must accompany them in their ascent if he would continue his
sport, and by day struggle in his canoe against the rapids, up which he
hears them darting at night.
While the fish are still in tide water, and the fisherman is fishing
from the rocks, the head of some bay into which flows a stream of fresh
water, and the time of the lower half of the tide, are both desirable.
The former as furnishing a variety of food, and the latter as
contracting the fishing ground. The eddies of a swift current, and the
hollows of a rocky bottom are both affected by the fish; although they
are often found along a smooth sandy shore, chasing the minnows, and now
and then dashing at a fly or sand-hopper thrown off the land. It is
nothing unusual to capture a hundred fish in as few hours as it will
require to land them, and often the only limit to the number will be the
sportsman’s humanity. They are a difficult fish to preserve; it seems
sacrilegious to salt them; they are not good pickled in brine, and
smoking is both injurious and troublesome. The fisherman, if he would
not have them rot before his eyes, must put a bridle on his eagerness.
They run very large, sometimes above a dozen pounds, are often taken of
five and six, and frequently a whole day’s catch will average three
pounds. They are found at the mouth and along the shore of every river
that empties into the lower part of the St. Lawrence. They ascend the
Saguenay, and are taken at and near its mouth in great numbers, and in
fact everywhere in the lower St. Lawrence and all its tributaries they
abound. It would be more difficult to tell where not to find them than
where to find them. But the best trout-fishing season is later, when
they have followed the salmon and retired to the upper waters of the
mountain streams, where they lie together in shoals, in the deep pools.
Then they may be traced by the wake their motion leaves in the water;
then may the fisherman, casting a long line and careful fly, pick the
finest and go on fishing till heart and soul are satisfied. There, amid
the wild scenery, at the foot of the granite hills, by the shade of the
stunted spruce, he may take his stand upon some point of rocks, near to
a black pool, and deftly wielding the slender rod, may bring to the net
one after another of the mighty denizens of the water. But even then, if
he would take the mightiest he must prove himself a sportsman by keeping
out of sight and casting far and straight. And when his sport is
terminated by the declining day, or his ample satisfaction, and he meets
his companions round the camp-fire, over a well cooked supper improved
by a vigorous appetite, he will exchange experiences of the habits of
fish or the arcana of the angler’s art.
If, however, he loves the “wet sheet and the flowing sea,” a nautical
anomaly, by the way, he may pursue his prey in the open bays, and with a
smart breeze and long line, and gaudy fly dancing from wave to wave,
have great sport. Under these circumstances the fish are almost
uncontrollable and must be often followed with the boat for a long way
before they can be killed. It is gloriously exciting, the bright waters
sparkling with foam, the light boat leaping over the billows, the sky
magnificent in its depth of blue, the fresh breeze cool and strong; and
the fish just hooked, furious, vigorous and courageous, rushing hither
and thither, plunging to the bottom or springing high out of water. Then
the exciting chase as he takes off fortunately down wind, and exhausts
all but the few last turns of line on the reel till it becomes a
question of speed between him and the boat, and at last his final
surrender and capture. Truly is it magnificent.
Rivière du Loup, a little Canadian village situated on the St. Lawrence,
opposite the mouth of the Saguenay, is now connected with Quebec by
railroad, and is only a day and a half distant from New York. It affords
good accommodations, but there is no place anywhere on the Saguenay or
at its mouth where the traveller can stop.[6] The Habitans although
generally willing to offer such accommodation as they possess, are too
dirty in their habits, and often too much beloved of creeping things to
suit American taste. So that as there is little or no trout fishing at
Rivière du Loup, the angler must make his arrangements for a camp-life,
and would do well to descend the St. Lawrence in a pilot boat, which he
can hire with a man and boy for two dollars a day, and stop at the
mouths of all the streams that debouche into it. The river is over
twenty miles wide, and he must look out for storms, as these boats are
open and by no means good sea boats. At night he can go ashore, build a
fire, put up his tent, and call into requisition the numerous luxuries
this mode of travelling will enable him to carry.
A steamboat ascends the Saguenay twice a week, and he can either take it
at Quebec or join it at Rivière du Loup, and by this means enjoy a trip
through the bold scenery of that celebrated river, and can either return
to Rivière du Loup, or take a pilot boat at L’Anse à l’Eau. There is a
generous-hearted Englishman living at L’Anse à l’Eau, but he has been
compelled to refuse admission to all strangers, as any infraction of
that rule would have led to his being overrun.
Many of the streams of Lower Canada are leased to private individuals,
and there are few good accessible salmon streams open to the public, but
the sea trout fishing along the St. Lawrence and at the mouths of most
of the streams is free to all. In Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, and at
Prince Edward’s Island, there is as yet no restriction, and both salmon
and trout are the property of him who can catch them.[7] Nowhere,
however, can any salmon fishing or good trout fishing be had except by
camping out. Canadian canoemen can be obtained, if not required to
furnish canoes, for sixty cents a day, although the Indians, who are far
superior, command over a dollar, and where the angler is unacquainted
with the water he is to fish, he had better take the latter. They are,
however, willful and exacting, and sometimes stubborn and troublesome,
while the former are the best-natured fellows in the world, full of fun,
song and frolic, but often too fond of the liquor case.
The best river of Lower Canada is the Mingan, but if it is not already
leased it soon will be. It can be reached by steamer that leaves Quebec
semi-weekly, stopping at Gaspi, at Bathurst on the Bay de Chaleurs,
which is near Nipisiquit, the best river of New Brunswick, at several
places along the route, and finally at Shediac, whence there is a
communication with St. John or Halifax. The steamer running at the time
this is written is the Arabian, and leaves Quebec every alternate
Monday. The Nipisiquit is within a few miles of Bathurst, where there is
good accommodation, and boatmen can be obtained without difficulty, or
the fisherman may continue his travels to Dalhousie, at the mouth of the
Restigouche, and try either that or the Matapediac. Another mode of
reaching the fishing grounds, is to go to St. John, and thence by
steamboat to Fredericton, and cross over by land to the Miramichi, at
Boiestown, where there is excellent trout and fair salmon fishing. A
list of the distances from Quebec, together with further instructions,
is given under the head of salmon fishing, as the rivers we have
mentioned are properly salmon rivers.
The sea trout fishing is so fine, that many persons prefer it to taking
the larger salmon, and can be indulged in almost anywhere along the
shores of New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Prince Edward’s Island,
Newfoundland and Lower Canada; and were it not for the heavy fogs, the
Bay of St. Lawrence would be a favorite resort of our adventurous
yachtsmen. The Galway line of ocean steamers now touches at
Newfoundland, whose waters abound with the finest fish.
The sea trout ascend to the head-waters of the Miramichi quite early, so
that there are none of large size to be caught in the lower section by
the middle of July. In that river they average from two to five pounds’
weight. But the Tabasintac, a stream half-way between Chatham and
Bathurst, is the most famous sea trout river of New Brunswick. I do not
know of any sea trout along the southern shore of New Brunswick.
The scientific designation of this fish is not yet settled, although the
United States Fish Commission have given it their attention, and it is
to be dreaded that, numerous as he still is, the sea-trout will have
disappeared before we know what to call him.
Canada and the Provinces have been immensely developed since much of the
above was written; travel is easier, pleasanter, quicker, and
accommodations better. But with this improvement have come fishing
restrictions, license fees, and government interference, which more than
counterbalance the advantages.
[Illustration: LAKE TROUT--SALMON TROUT--TOGUE. (_Salmo confinis_)]
CHAPTER IV.
A TRIP TO THE LA VAL.
A beautiful breeze was blowing down between the grand old hills of the
majestic Saguenay on that first day of August when Walton[8] and myself
started from L’Anse à l’Eau in one of the oddly-shaped pilot-boats of
the St. Lawrence, for a visit to the Bon Homme la Val. The Bon Homme la
Val, a beautiful and romantic stream that falls into the St. Lawrence
about sixty miles below the Saguenay, tradition asserts was named by the
pious Canadians in the early days of the country after a beloved father
confessor. But time and the English, equally utilitarian, have
contracted it into simply La Val, and the origin of the name, together
with the piety that suggested it, is almost forgotten by the present
generation. The sun was shining brilliantly, and the strong northwest
wind curled the waves of the ancient river, and crested them with foam;
the dark waters surged in their falling tide; the stunted trees shivered
in the blast; while the granite hills were as immovable as they had been
mid storm and calm for many thousand years; but the pretty little
village was all astir with our departure.
It is a fanciful place, with the white houses perched in a nook between
the whiter rocks, while the graceful roofs and white-washed walls
shining in the sunlight, produces a picturesque effect. The few English
families residing there, and their many friends on visit to them, made
an agreeable society, drawn closer together by its seclusion from the
world at large; and bright eyes looked brighter when there were none
others by.
The world of L’Anse à l’Eau was collected on the wharf to witness our
departure--the Canadians because they had no better employment, the
English that they might bid us adieu. Our pilot-boat, called by the
Canadians _chaloupe_, an open boat some five-and-twenty feet long by
seven wide, was crammed full of our numerous traps, plunder or baggage,
as it would be variously styled in different parts of our land of
freedom. The fishing rods, and one gun, devoted to the destruction of
bears for lack of smaller game, were carefully stowed; small barrels, at
present filled with meat, but destined to return filled with fish, lay
side by side with baskets full of more delicate provender; tents,
bedding and innumerable other articles occupied every inch of room. We
were experienced in woodsman life, and had no idea of suffering the want
of luxuries that could be easily carried with us, and would never
trouble us on our return, unless they did it in spite of our teeth.
There were preserved soups, meats and fruits, sauces of many kinds, tea
and coffee, the latter ground and in bottles of essence; there were
brown, white and maple sugars, concentrated milk, flour, indian and
oatmeal, barley, rice and potatoes; liquors of many kinds, and other
things too numerous to mention. For our protection from the weather, we
had two tents and waterproof cloth sufficient for a make-shift, two
indian-rubber blankets apiece, one coated on the side the other in the
middle, waterproof suits, plenty of blankets, flannels, and warm
clothes; and such other things as a gentleman ordinarily carries on a
journey. As a defence against the mosquitoes, black flies, sand flies,
and other like torments of Satan’s invention, there were veils, the oil
of tar, and a mixture of glycerine, turpentine and spearmint. Above our
treasures were carefully stowed our two canoes, bottom upmost. In a
heavy sea they cannot be towed, as they are apt to fill and tear to
pieces.
Few persons know how beautiful and delicate a canoe is. It is
manufactured only by the Indian; in that the white man has never
equalled him. The best is made from a piece of white birch bark,
stripped from the tree in springtime, damped, and after being cut away
to the requisite extent, molded into the proper shape. The inside is
covered with gum, and a thinner piece of bark fitted upon it, so that
though the outer bark be torn, it still does not leak. Over this are
passed thin strips of red cedar, lengthwise of the canoe, and crossing
them at every inch are ribs of the same wood. The gunwale is formed of a
stout stick of hickory or ash, laced to the sides, and four strong but
slender thwarts bind the whole firmly together, and serve for seats or
supports. Inferior articles are made of but one thickness and of poorer
bark. The shape differs according as they are manufactured by the
Mountaineers or Micmacs, the two tribes of this region, the former
building a long, narrow and graceful boat, easily capsized even for a
canoe, and well suited for travel in smooth water; while the latter
build a broader and flatter boat, drawing little water and better
suited for shoals and rapids. They are mostly manufactured on the south
side of the St. Lawrence, birch-trees of the requisite size having
almost disappeared from the north shore. The bark is composed of
innumerable layers, and is the only known substance that would stand the
rough contact with rocks that canoes experience. A volume could be
written on the wondrous qualities of birch bark, the woodsman’s
invaluable treasure; to him it is a boat, a tent, a table, a plate, a
cup, a basket, a pail, a basin, a frying-pan, a tea-kettle, a candle, a
flambeau, a cooking oven, writing paper, kindling wood, and almost all
the other conveniences or necessaries of life.
The chaloupe being loaded, a long farewell shouted loudly that our
spirits might not fail, and we turned our backs on L’Anse à l’Eau, the
pretty bay at the waterside. The jib was set, and the _grande voile_, or
foresail, together with the _tapecu_, or jigger, while the mainsail,
called by the Canadians mizzin--for we were a three-masted schooner--was
brailed up, not only to give us more room, but because the open boat was
then under all the sail she could stagger to. The French are a wonderful
people; strange and incomprehensible are the sailing vessels they have
produced; but in Canada, aided by the antiquated notions of the English,
they surpass themselves and manage to combine in their pilot-boats all
the defects of which either system is capable. While the rest of the
world has discovered that the more sails a small boat carries the slower
she will go, they have carefully cut up what should have been one sail
into four; and whereas a pilot-boat is mainly wanted in rough weather,
and should be capable of living in any sea, they have built them open,
and any heavy wave breaking aboard would swamp them in an instant.
But of all wonderful productions of the human mind the jigger excels; a
mast is stepped alongside the stern-post, with a little spritsail
hoisted on it; a stationary boom, or out-rigged, is fastened in the
stern and projects aft into the water; in the end of this boom an augur
hole is bored, through which is rove the sheet to the jigger, and the
sail trimmed down or eased off. By this ingenious arrangement all
possible disadvantages are combined without one conceivable advantage.
However, not to condemn unreasonably, there are conveniences in this
singular rig. The bowsprit can be taken out and used to shove off from
rocks or a lee shore, and as these vessels are never known to go to
windward, that is important; the sprit of the jigger can be used to boom
out the mainsail when going wing and wing; any passenger, finding a sail
incommodes him, can reach up and wrap it round the mast, out of his way;
and in fact, if he were to pull it down and put it in his pocket, no one
would miss it; and finally, a Kentuckian might find the mainmast useful,
with a little whittling, as a toothpick. It is also rather perplexing
that the Canadians should call the foresail the _grande voile_, which is
the proper name for the mainsail, and then call the mainsail the mizzin,
in pronouncing which they endeavor to cheat the last syllable of its
vowel; whereas, the jigger, if any, is entitled to be called the mizzen.
Instead of having a cabin, like Christians, they have amidships, for it
is a keel boat, what they call a _boîte_; and sure enough it is a box,
as long as the width of the boat, some seven feet, about two and a half
feet deep at the lowest part, and rounding to the shape of the bottom,
and three and a half feet wide. Into that they crawl, and two men and a
boy have been known to sleep comfortably.
Such was the vessel that was destined to bear us sixty miles down the
broad St. Lawrence, and was soon tearing along under the fierce wind
that crested every wave with foam. Fortunately, our course lay along the
weather shore, for our open cockle-shell would not have lived a minute
exposed to the full sweep of the blast and the sea it must have raised
on the other side of the river, or even a few miles from shore. Once in
a while, a little dash of spray would come hissing on board, or fling
itself into our faces; but as the wind was free, we could carry on sail
as long as she could keep above the waves, or until she carried the
masts out of her. Even that ungainly vessel, driving on in the seething
waters, carrying the canoes on her deck, and with her sails straining in
the blast, must have been more than picturesque.
On we tore, skirting the dreary, inhospitable coast past the village of
Tadousac, past the Moulinbaud, the Escomain, a river once famous for its
salmon, but no longer so; past the Patte de Lièvre, a rock of the shape
of the hare’s foot, where many years ago the sea gave up its dead, and a
cross now stands to mark the grave of the lost nameless one; and the
last puffs of the wearied blast urged us quietly into the outlet of
Sault de Cochon. At the mouth of this river there is a steep fall, down
which once a hog hastily descended much against her will; in her death
covering herself with immortality giving her name to the torrent that
destroyed her.
Hastily launching one of the canoes, and rigging up our rods, my
companion and myself, eager for the fray, commenced tempting the
innocent inhabitants of the deep with delusive baits. Evidently Mr. Red
Hackle was not one of their intimate acquaintances, and they took to him
amazingly. The god of day was already declining behind the western
hills, and casting long shadows over the now placid water, but the fish
leaped at the fly in innumerable numbers, giving us such sport as we at
least never enjoyed before. At almost every cast a trout, varying in
size from a quarter of a pound to two pounds and a half, plunging out of
water, seized the fly fearlessly in his mouth, while often two or three
were on the line at once. Large or small, they were most vigorous,
making fierce struggles and mad rushes to escape, their silver sides
glancing through the water, and their tails lashing it into a foam. No
dull, heavy, logy fish were they, but active and lively, and excellent
was the sport they gave; so that when our men, having improvised a
kitchen on the rocks, called to us that supper was ready, we were loath
to leave our sport. It was then eight o’clock; we had been fishing about
three hours, and over one hundred and twenty fish, averaging about half
a pound, were the net reward of our skill.
The scene, as we took our supper upon the end of an old tumble-down
dock, was peculiar. The light of the fires, making the surrounding
darkness the deeper, served alone to illumine with lurid brightness the
faces and fantastic dresses of our men, while the roar of the cataract
shut out all other sounds. The chaloupe lay below us, its outline just
defined upon the dark water, while we, seated upon a log, drank our tea
and feasted right royally upon fresh trout and other comforts that
civilization had provided us.
Truly incomprehensible are the Habitans of Canada. One of the few
inhabitants being without any eatable thing in the house, having scraped
the flour barrel till he had scraped off splinters of wood, and, except
for our arrival, without the prospect of a meal for the morrow, had
soothed his sorrows by inviting his neighbors to a ball. Of course there
was no supper; but the music of one fiddle, and the merry spirits of the
Canadian girls made up for the deficiency, and when we joined them,
after our tea, they all seemed as happy as though stomachs never grew
hungry or limbs tired. Being politely offered the belles, we joined the
festivities, our potables adding to the merriment of the party, till,
with the prospect of a hard day’s work on the morrow, we thought best to
retire to the dressing-room and camp upon the floor for the night.
Although the bed was hard, and our rest somewhat disturbed by visions of
beautiful creatures arranging their hair and dresses by the light of a
tallow candle, before the looking-glass in our room, and at last donning
their hats for a final departure, we slept tolerably, and the early dawn
saw us on our feet, preparing for our departure.
While the men were carrying out our directions, in anticipation of a
long absence from civilization, the attractions of the finny tribe were
too seductive, and we, yielding to their enticements, again cast our
lines in pleasant places, and again, in about three hours, captured
over eighty of the speckled silver-sides. The largest weighed two pounds
and a half, and was the best fish taken, thus far.
The barrels were arranged, the salt was purchased and stowed, the canoes
made fast, the sails set, and, blessed by a still more favorable
southwest wind, we got under way for La Val. Its mouth was only about
one mile distant, but we intended to ascend it as far as possible with
the chaloupe, on the rising tide, and were thankful for the favoring
wind. At its outlet lies an island of the same name with the river,
behind which stretches a broad, rocky, shallow bay. We escaped by
grazing several rocks, and entered a sluggish, canal-like, dirty river,
as unlike the La Val of a few miles above as anything can be conceived,
and ploughed our way through crowding shoals of sardines, that rose so
thick as to tempt us to try to catch them with a scap net. But where the
rocks began to be visible as the water became clearer, we drew the
chaloupe to the shore, and anchoring her stem and stern, loaded our
canoes for the ascent of the river. We took with us the essentials of
our camp life, intending to send back for the superfluities after we had
established a permanent camp; the river being too low, our canoes would
not carry a heavy load.
Armed with iron-shod poles to shove up the rapids, and paddles for the
deeper pools, our Canadians took their places and we commenced our
ascent. My companion was an expert canoeman, but for myself it was my
first real lesson in the unsteady little shells, and seated upon the
bottom I awaited every moment a sudden bath. Here the water was
comparatively smooth, and little was I prepared for the falls and rapids
that were ere long to steady my nerves for anything, and prove what a
canoe can do when it is well handled.
While our head guide, with the musical taste that is inherent in the
French nature, rang forth--
“Aimez-moi Nicolas,”
the paddles were being plied vigorously, and we shot into the narrow
cleft that forms the bed of the La Val. Straight up from the water’s
edge sprung the hills on each side, their grey rocks scarcely half
covered with stunted spruce, pine and hemlock, and rarely leaving margin
enough for underwood to grow upon the bank. The water, now limpid as
crystal, poured down in an ever increasing current, and here and there
boiled over a hidden rock. On we forced our way, a bald eagle the only
contestant for our sole occupancy of the river, past the grey cliffs,
the sombre trees, through dark pools, up rapid currents, by banks of
clay greyer than the granite hills themselves. On, on, with steady
exertions, at every moment ascending toward the source of the wild
stream. The water became shoaler, the currents stronger, and the rapids
more rocky as we advanced.
Poling up the rapids was strange indeed. Imagine a torrent pouring,
hissing and boiling down over rocks, where the foam glistened and the
spray danced into the air, sweeping through narrow channels and leaping
up and curling over in crested waves; imagine a light, fragile boat,
that a man could lift with one hand, forced against such a current,
between or even over the rocks, swayed about, swept hither and thither,
and once in a while caught broadside on, and, unless quickly righted,
carried to instant destruction. Imagine the excited efforts, the quick
directions of the steersman, or forward boatman, whose care it is to
head the canoe straight, to choose at a glance the deepest channel, and
to keep her clear as possible from the rocks. “_Arrête! avance! pousse!
à droite! à gauche!_” with a thousand others, come streaming forth as
she touches, swings round, or tries to take her own head. At times she
stops entirely, and by main force alone is she pushed over; the rock
being distinctly felt as it bends the thin bark, that by its elasticity
gives to the pressure and springs to its place the next instant. The men
stand erect, exerting all their strength, and handle their poles like a
Paddy his shillelah, first on one side, then on the other, then in front
and then behind, the iron taking a firm hold of the slippery rocks. Such
was our ascent, and deeply interesting it proved to me, although at
first it seemed inevitable that the foaming water must ingulf us all,
and, destroying our provisions, leave us, if we escaped at all,
shipwrecked mariners upon a desolate coast.
I was glad, therefore, at every opportunity to quit the canoe, and
clambering as fast as I could over the slippery rocks, post myself ahead
upon the point of some _batture_ or ledge of rocks, and cast the fly
till the canoe came toiling painfully along. Great was my success,
beautiful the dark pools, ever varying the limpid water. The treacherous
banks of clay, so slippery that it was scarce possible to stand on
them; the dark pines casting a gloomy shadow upon the water, the sombre
depths where the current had worn away a cavern for the naiads of the
watery realm, made together a picture never to be forgotten. While the
innumerable trout were enough to gladden the heart of any true
sportsman.
The day was passed and yet our journey not half done; we halted for the
night as “The shades of eve came slowly down,” and Walton joined me with
his rod while the tent was being pitched and the fire lighted. Glorious
was our sport; many a brave fish rose and sunk, and rose to sink no
more; either in that region the parent trout had not learned the infant
song that in civilized localities they are accustomed to teach their
children, or else the mothers did not know the latter were out; for
certainly they were not aware of the concealment of the cruel hook under
the seeming insect. They showed no fear and we no pity, till the call of
“supper” found us with over a hundred fish, averaging a pound and a
half.
In conscious innocence and happiness we retired; the fire was bright,
the night was warm, the woods were still, the sand was soft, but oh! the
sand flies. They came down upon us more innumerable than the locusts in
Egypt, and if Pharaoh had only been tormented with them, he would have
given up in one night. I tossed and turned and rolled about, hid my head
under the blanket, and covered it up with my handkerchief. All to no
use; they would still find some means of entrance, the little, invisible
things; and they bit till my face seemed on fire. Their bite does not
itch like a mosquito’s, but burns, and I never again shall despise a
thing because it is small. Compelled to surrender all hope of sleep, I
gathered the dying embers of the fire, and adding fuel, drove away the
pests, while, at the same time, with infinite relish, I scorched our
men, who, to my previous disgust, had been sleeping during my sufferings
as though they were in paradise.
By the earliest dawn I had waded into the river and made the discovery
that fish, unlike the proverbial birds, will not take the fly too early.
Just before the sunlight tinged the mountain-tops, they, thinking to
provide their own breakfasts, provided me with mine, so that, when the
time came to leave off, I had taken twenty fish weighing over forty
pounds.
Immediately after the meal was over, we continued our ascent as rapidly
as possible, dreading another experience such as we had endured the
previous night, and hurried on to reach our regular camping-ground and
pitch a proper tent. On the way, I only had time to catch fifteen,
weighing thirty-seven pounds, the largest being of three pounds and a
half, and late in the afternoon hailed with pleasure the information
that at last we had reached the spot that was to be to us for some time
our home. It was a beautiful location; the stream, by a sudden bend,
forming a low, long point of land, nearly level, which had been, by
previous camping parties, entirely denuded of underbrush and partly of
trees. In front, midway in the river, was a large flat rock, beyond
which, extending to the further shore, and just fairly within casting
distance, lay a deep, black pool. A dead tree leaned over this rock from
our side of the river, forming a perilous swinging bridge by which one
could reach it dry-shod. Directly across a cool spring brook entered the
La Val at a place where the shore was a mass of overhanging underbrush.
A pathway had been cut through the woods by some previous salmon fishers
to the pools above and below; and with the poles, benches, boards and
other insignificant but useful articles left by our predecessors, our
camping-ground combined every requisite with many luxuries. At five
o’clock the tent was pitched, our necessary part of the arrangements,
the head-work done, and Walton and myself commenced fishing. We stood
side by side upon the rock already mentioned, and before dark had taken
fifty-three trout, weighing one hundred and twenty pounds. They were
most vigorous fish, and many a time did their continued runs almost
exhaust our lines. We had fished at Sault de Cochon with three flies; on
ascending the river had diminished them to two, and now the fish
themselves coolly reduced them to one. Almost invariably, if we struck
two fish at a time, no matter what pains we took, one broke away with
the hook. After a short time, we did not pretend to use more than one,
and then had to take great pains in removing it from the mouth to avoid
its being destroyed, so tough were the lips and strong the teeth of
these noble fish. Indeed, it was soon effectually proved that any fly
with the hackle wound from the shoulder to the bend was worthless, the
first fish biting away the hackle, which should have been only wound
close to the head. Heretofore the destruction of my fly had been a minor
consideration, but now I found that I must look to myself, or, although
provided with over thirty dozen, there might be danger of my falling
short. As it was, the fish destroyed in the course of my trip at least
ten dozen.
A delicious night’s rest was the reward of our efforts at arranging a
proper camp, and in fact, henceforth there was no trouble from flies,
mosquitoes, or any insect, except to a slight degree during the
day-time; an annoyance that a segar would effectually dispel. From a
quarter before seven to a quarter past eight next morning I alone took
twelve fish averaging over two pounds, and during the day, while
ascending the river for a short distance to investigate what now became
to us a serious question, the depth of water, Walton and myself together
caught twelve, and in the afternoon twenty-eight more. In the course of
this day we established a rule to throw back all fish weighing under two
pounds, a rule we adhered to till our last day in the river. The water
proved to be very low, and although at night we occasionally heard the
rush of a large fish up the rapids, the salmon had passed above and were
probably on their spawning grounds, whither it now began to be very
doubtful whether we could follow them. It was late in the season, as we
knew, for salmon, although we had come prepared for them, and wished to
catch at least a few.
We had picked up at Sault de Cochon, as a super-numerary, a boy of about
eighteen, who was one of the most remarkable beings the sun ever shone
upon. He would sit for hours with his mouth open and his hands before
him, and, unless told, would hardly have sense to eat enough to keep
himself from starvation. After dark, our men, with a hook and line and
the entrails of a trout for bait, caught some eels, and he, emulous of
their success, took the line after they had finished, and concluded he
would try his luck. Although he had been watching their proceedings for
an hour with the deepest interest, he had no idea what they used for
bait, and was forced to inquire. They, with peals of laughter, suggested
alternately “a cup of tea, a bit of biscuit, a little ale, a lump of
sugar,” and such other anomalous baits. Although he at last succeeded in
ascertaining from them what they used, it was not to be supposed that he
would catch anything; in fact, it is highly probable he fell asleep over
his rod and slept till morning.
The next day we prepared for a portage of five miles to the Lake la Val,
a pond of some two miles in length by one in breadth, formed by the
river’s spreading out and filling a valley in the hills. Walton donned a
heavy basket, Joe, our chief canoeman, took the canoe, while François,
the lazy boy, carried a bundle of bedding. We crossed the river, and
striking directly into the woods, followed an Indian trail that had
probably been there before this continent was discovered by Columbus.
The mode of carrying the canoe was truly original; it was reversed and
mounted on Joe’s shoulders, and his head being entirely concealed, he
steadied it by holding to one of the cross pieces, and, at a distance,
looked like some strange animal with a huge trunk, supported by two
little legs. It was surprising how he managed it through the trees and
among the underbrush, and even ascended places where we were compelled
to give our legs the aid of our hands, not, however, without strenuous
exertion, and the perspiration streamed from him when, after
accomplishing about a mile, he leaned it upon a fallen log and slipped
from beneath. Then the warning my friend had so often given me never to
wet the bottom of the canoe, because it augmented its weight so
terribly, came forcibly to mind. Fortunately François waked up, and
having volunteered to carry the canoe over the next stretch, and it
being ascertained, to every one’s astonishment, that he knew how, proved
himself for the first time of any value, and shortened our journey
considerably. During the portage we saw our first game, a spruce grouse
so tame that no efforts we made could induce him to fly. He escaped
death, primarily because we had no gun, and secondarily because it was
out of season. At last, after a trying journey for our men, we passed a
deserted lumbermen’s shanty, and found ourselves upon the sandy shore of
the lovely Lake la Val.
This beautiful sheet of water, lying amid high sterile hills far from
the abodes of man, has remained, and will continue for centuries,
unvisited except by the native Indian or the adventurous sportsman.
Romantic in its location and appearance, it is remarkable for the number
and apparently irreconcilable character of the fish that inhabit its
waters. While the voracious northern pickerel and giant mascallonge
inhabit the upper part, and the fierce, greedy and powerful salmon have
appropriated the outlet, shad or mullet and lake trout, both
comparatively inoffensive, dwell in the centre, and doubtless prove an
easy prey and grateful food to their natural enemies on either hand.
Along the upper margin, weeds grow, and the bottom is in places soft
and muddy, while the residue of the shore and bottom is firm white
sand. The lake looked, in its broad expanse with the sun dancing on its
rippled surface, lovely to us whose eyes had for a time been confined to
a narrow gorge or the blue sky above.
Hastily launching the canoe, we descended the outlet, where the water
poured over huge bowlders covered with a long, weedy grass, the seeds of
which had been washed from the lake. Walton was standing in the bow of
the canoe, and shouted with delight, and waved his paddle
enthusiastically in air as salmon after salmon flashed up through the
water, and shot by, rapid as light. The sight made our nerves tingle,
but it was useless to try for them; the water was too clear, and they
were dark and long run from the sea. At one point he frantically shouted
to stop, and hastily explained that he had seen five salmon and numerous
large trout in one deep hole. In vain, however, did we cast our flies,
they had been frightened, and probably rushed down the stream, for we
could not stir a fin. Descending a short distance further, we halted for
dinner, after which, taking advantage of a resting spell, I waded back
to the same spot.
The pool lay close beside a little island covered with alders, and by
crawling cautiously I kept out of sight, and reaching the head of the
island, cast carefully and lightly round it into the pool. The line went
out straight the full length, the fly fell like a snow-flake on the
water, there was an angry rush, a mighty splash, a quick taughtening of
the line, and an enormous fish was fastened to my frail tackle. In his
astonishment he fortunately darted up stream, and by skillful
management was led round into the other channel, where, after many a
struggle and desperate effort to escape, baffled only by prudence and
care exerted through a long but exciting half hour, I landed him by
walking into the water waist deep, and slipping the net under him. As
for leading him to shore, my rod, already bent double would not bear the
strain. He was a dark-backed, yellow-sided river fish, and weighed four
pounds and a quarter. He was our champion prize, and remained so to the
end. The water not having been disturbed, I made another cast, and was
rewarded by another fish that weighed four pounds. A brace of beauties,
fit to set before a king. The second one, however, so fought and
flounced, and kicked and slapped about in the pool, in spite of all my
persuasive efforts to induce him to leave it, that the rest grew
suspicious, and refused the most seductive baits. My friend looked the
least little bit envious when I rejoined him, and mentioned his having
previously taken a sea trout at the Mingan that weighed nine pounds. I
smiled, of course respectfully. We returned to the lake, having taken in
all fifteen fish averaging three pounds, and leaving the canoe on the
beach, wended our way through the woods back to our sylvan home, where
Pierre received us with a redoubtable supper. Insatiable, however, I
that evening took eight, and next morning three, from our preserve, as
we called the pool in front of the tent.
As we intended to return to the lake, and might perhaps spear a
pickerel, Joe made an _égog_, which appears to be the Indian name for
fish-spear, the Canadians having not only adopted the word, but coined
from it a French verb, _égogger_, to spear. Armed with it, and provided
with make-shift tenting materials, we hastened to the lake, and
launching our canoe,, tried its virtues upon the pickerel. The latter,
however, were so scarce, that we rigged up the more effectual spinning
tackle, and took a pickerel and a mascallonge of about twelve pounds
each, and struck another of the latter very large, weighing, as well as
could be guessed, from his passing close to the boat, about forty
pounds. That night, provided with flambeaux, we went out for the purpose
of again trying to spear pickerel; but, passing by the outlet of the
pond, were so attracted by the numerous salmon, we could get no further.
It was a romantic sight; the canoe, lit up by the blazing flambeau, that
was fastened, high above our heads, to a pole fixed in the bow, and by
its glare made the surrounding darkness the more impenetrable; the
silence of the night was unbroken, except by the dip of the paddle; and
calmness of the water unruffled, through which the bewildered salmon
lazily floated, following us about, coming so close that we could touch
them with our hands, and occasionally jumping frantically into the air,
utterly out of their wits and at the mercy of any poacher. Walton was
excited, myself enthusiastic, but Joe was frantic; “_Egoggez donc!
égoggez donc!_” he shouted, wildly pushing at the fish with his paddle,
and almost ready to jump out of the boat. My friend held the spear in
hand--he was a splendid spearsman, and could have filled the boat with
salmon; but it was illegal as well as dishonorable to catch them in that
manner--he wavered but a moment, and then with a sigh lay down the
spear and took up his paddle, the greatest example of self-command and
honest sportsmanship I ever knew. General Washington, when he refused to
be king, was no greater. My friend was not rewarded if he did not sleep
happier for it that night in the old cabin on the shore of Lake la Val;
and if the falling pipe of the rotting stove that nearly crushed his
head had killed him, he would have died virtuous, respected and without
reproach.
Oh, that I had the pen of Julius Cæsar, Homer, Shakspeare, or even
Byron, that I might write an ode to sapin, the balsam fir-tree! Tree of
the weary woodsman, tree of the luxurious sportsman, tree of all men
whom the drowsy god catches in the woods and compels to his embraces! A
bed of thy leaves is softer than one of eider-down, and far more
comfortable. A prince might sleep on thee and dream he was in paradise.
Thou preservest us from colds, from rheumatism, and the many ills that
flow from the evil humors of the cold ground. Thy leaves, growing in one
direction from the stem, will lie flat, and may be piled to any depth--a
foot of luxury, as in our permanent camp--and make a couch that combines
the softness of the feather-bed with the firmness of the mattress, and
an elasticity purely thy own. To thee, and to thy mate the hemlock, and
thy associate the white birch, I now, far from thee, waft, in a cloud of
tobacco-smoke, my love. Go on, increase and wax great; may often the one
support me on the land, the other on the water!
When the next morning’s sun had once more brought round my birthday, the
thirty-first that had ever dawned, we commemorated the fact by
undertaking to descend the La Val from the outlet to our home; a
roundabout journey of some fifteen miles, in lieu of the portage of
five. It was to be a final test of the depth of the water, as the course
lay over bad rapids and falls, and we entered upon the journey with
great uncertainty. Packing our temporary bedding in a water-proof
blanket, our party embarked and sped gaily along for the first mile or
two, but soon found the bed of the stream one mass of huge rocks, over
which the canoe had to be driven with sheer force, and which tore and
strained the fragile bark till it leaked terribly.
During this day our progress was necessarily slow and laborious, and to
relieve ourselves we fished continually. The trout rose beautifully--in
fact, in one pool they were so thick, sweeping round in shoals, that we
grew surfeited, and left it for a spot where they were less plenty.
Still it required a long line and light fly to cull the largest--which
were the ones we sought--and skill and patience to land them. We might
have taken hundreds had the time permitted, or our canoe been in
condition to carry them; but every strain had increased the leak till we
could no longer keep it down by bailing, and had to land from time to
time to turn the water out. In fact, it was a wet time altogether; there
was a drizzling rain, the canoe was three inches deep with water, we had
both been wading part of the day, and had so arranged our water-proof
blanket that it projected beyond the temporary tent, and catching all
the water that drained off, would not permit it to soak through, but
collected a miniature Lake la Val in the middle of our bed. I being the
heaviest, had the most of it; but by the aid of a blazing fire, I slept
warm and comfortable till the morning air struck me, when the time came
to rise, and sent a shiver to my very bones, giving me at first horrible
visions of consumption, night-sweats and early death. Our tally of fish
taken during the day amounted to fifty-three, weighing nearly two
hundred pounds, and I had captured the greatest weight as yet taken at
one cast, landing two fish, one of which weighed two and the other three
pounds and a half. A handsome present the river gods made me for my
birthday!
The next day, after an hour had been spent in vainly trying to attract
the salmon, our journey was continued to the camp, the river as we
descended proving worse, the rocks higher, the rapids fiercer, the water
lower, our canoe frailer, till it came almost to dragging the latter
over the bed of a current instead of floating comfortably along its
surface. All hope of ascending to the head-waters was extinct, the
rapids above the lake we knew must be worse than those below, and the
latter were totally impassable for a loaded canoe. In our despair, we
fished steadily at every breathing spell, and might have taken unlimited
numbers, for they rose gloriously.
While walking unconsciously along, separated from my companions, I was
fairly startled at observing what at first glance seemed to be a female
figure seated on the opposite side of the stream beneath the bank. The
impression was only dissipated by a close inspection. The rains had
scooped out of the bank a dark niche, the edges of which were ornamented
with vines and moss and in it was seated a figure of clay, worn to an
astonishing likeness of a woman with a gipsy bonnet on her head. She
appeared to be seated, and her bonnet, its strings and her dress, were
accurately imitated by the curling white birch bark. The color of her
face seemed dark brunette, set off by the birch bonnet, that was brought
out in strong relief by the heavy shadow of the background. Altogether,
it was a startling apparition, and conjured up to my eyes the wondrous
sights of the times of elfin power, when my spectre would have made a
most perfect wood nymph.
Whether my elf gave me good luck or not, it is impossible to say, but we
caught thirty-seven magnificent fish, and after a hard day’s work,
during which we had toiled at the canoe and waded most of the way, the
camp was no unwelcome sight. It required Pierre’s best culinary efforts
to restore our spirits, and soothe our disappointment at being unable to
effect a further ascent, in which our worst forebodings were confirmed
by Jermain, an additional guide who had followed us, and who reported
from his Indian friends that the upper stream was impassable, the water
being a foot lower than was ever known before. With sad hearts,
therefore, the council of war determined that advance was hopeless, and
retreat inevitable; even our splendid sport could not console us.
It had been drizzling all day, and the next morning we devoted to a
general drying of wet articles--the camp looked like a grand clothes
washing establishment, with lines stretched from tree to tree round a
big fire, and hung with clothes. I took some seven trout for dinner, but
otherwise the fish had a rest until the morrow, which was to be our
last on the river, when we captured twenty-eight, a few of which,
however, did not exceed a pound and a half in weight.
The next day came, and good bye to the beautiful La Val. Slowly and
sorrowfully we struck our tent, sadly we collected together, and stowed
the many little articles that the occasion had hallowed to our hearts.
With feelings of deep regret we embarked, and looking our last look at
the camping-ground that had been our home, commenced a descent to our
chaloupe. As there were three canoes, and only five canoemen, including
my friend, I was gladly compelled to take the bow of one and act as
steersman. Of course my experience was limited, for, with the exception
of having once upset Walton to his intense disgust, I had taken little
active part in canoe management, and having for my stern-oar, Joe, whose
only idea was to push ahead under all circumstances, we performed
manœuvres that astonished more than they delighted our associates. Ours
was the leaky canoe that had been patched up with gum and a piece of a
shirt for the occasion, and being utterly reckless of it, we shot down
rapids and leaped over rocks like a runaway race-horse. Wonderful were
our hair breadth escapes; the rapid water, Joe with his “_Avancez
toujours_,” gave me no time to see and less to avoid the half-hidden
dangers, even if my skill had been equal to the task, and we darted
along amid the foaming current, or plunged headlong down cataracts, at a
rate and in a manner that would have surprised a locomotive off the
track. We succeeded, however, in keeping straight with the current, and
although once or twice our destruction seemed inevitable, we finally
arrived safe, though in a leaky and dilapidated condition, at the place
where we had anchored our chaloupe. The latter, left to herself, had
been trying what she could do on the rocks, and had succeeded, with the
aid of a falling tide, in upsetting twice, and so frightening the boy in
charge of her that he had fled for refuge to a shanty, which
providentially was near at hand.
Joe had taken the opportunity during our last day’s fishing, on hearing
of the misfortunes of his boat, to remove her to the Sault de Cochon, so
that we had to paddle about two miles in the open St. Lawrence. The
river was over twenty miles broad, and, under the influence of a
southwesterly wind, was so rough that our unsteady bark danced, tossed
and rolled about uncommonly. I could no longer stand up, as I had been
forced to do hitherto, and was brought to my knees at once, while even
Joe found it safer to sit down on the thwart. No one who has not tried
it can imagine what a canoe is in the slightest sea-way; it appears to
bob from under you, and rolls and dances so quickly as to render staying
in it almost impossible, even if it should not carry out its evident
design to turn bottom up. Once at Sault de Cochon and I again tried the
fish, having taken, on the descent of the La Val, twelve, and was
rewarded as I deserved, by total failure.
The wind had died out, the water lay a perfect mirror, and, crowding
down into the narrow cock-pit, we slept till two o’clock in the morning,
when a favoring tide helped us slowly along toward our destination. The
night passed, and the next day, and we drifted by place after place
that we passed before with such rapidity, and sunset again found us only
thirty-three miles on our way. We ran into a little bay at the mouth of
the Escomain, where, having built a huge fire and eaten a hearty supper,
we slept, on a bed of the softest pebble stones, soundly and sweetly
till the first grey light of daybreak, when we continued our journey
along a coast so poor that the best fed hogs are, as we were credibly
informed, light and weak enough to be blown over by a strong wind, and
mill-stones, to say nothing of the miller, starve for want of grain.
Again the hills of the Saguenay rise to our view, Tadousac rests calmly
in its nook, and the sun shines on the white houses of L’Anse à l’Eau as
when we left. Our trip is done. The La Val will live in our memory as
long as we can cast a fly--aye, and when gout or age shall have laid us
on the shelf. To you, my friend, the genial companion of my trip, I give
my thanks; may we meet again, and once more stand side by side upon some
projecting rock, as fish after fish rises to our fly. May you long live
to enjoy the sport at which you so excel, and may you leave children
that can cast a fly as well. To the stately St. Lawrence, to the
magnificent Saguenay, to the beautiful La Val, a long farewell.
CHAPTER V.
THE SALMON.
_Salmo Salar._--This celebrated fish is totally different in appearance
from the trout, having decidedly brilliant scales, colored bluish black
down to the lateral line, and beautiful and white as glistening silver
below. It has on the gill-covers and upper part of the sides
occasionally dark irregular spots. The tail is more forked, and
proportionally more expanded than that of the trout, while the fish is
of a more slim and elegant shape.
The branchial rays are twelve, and the fin-rays are as follows:
D. 13.0; P. 15; V. 9; A. 9.; C. 19-5/5.
These splendid and valuable fish, whether regarded as an object of the
sportsman’s skill or the epicurean’s taste, though once abundant in our
State, are so no more. Hendrick Hudson, on ascending the river he
discovered, was particularly struck with their immense numbers, and
continually mentions the “great stores of salmon.” The last unhappy fish
that was seen in the Hudson had his adventurous career terminated by the
net, near Troy, in the year 1840. The rivers flowing into Lake Ontario
abounded with them even until a recent period, but the persistent
efforts at their extinction have at last prevailed, and except a few
stragglers they have ceased
[Illustration: ATLANTIC SALMON--(_Salmo Salar._)]
from out our waters. The willful, stupid obstinacy in building dams
without fishways, in crowding the rivers with nets, and neglecting all
measures for their protection, have annihilated the noblest of game
fish. They are now only to be found in Maine, and to the northward of
it. The rivers of Maine are no longer worth the angler’s attention, and
if he would have good sport he must proceed to the wilds of New
Brunswick or Lower Canada.
In the wild woods of those famed regions they abound, and there, amid
the solitude of nature, in its primeval grandeur, the writer has cast
the fly over thousands, has lured hundreds from their hidden depths, and
seen myriads moving about in their romantic pools, or darting away when
disturbed; has waited, casting patiently, for their appearance; has felt
the vigor of their first rush; has seen them leap, maddened, high out of
water; has experienced all the variations of hope, the exultation of
success, and, alas! the agony of failure. He has known them to dart away
resistlessly down some impassable rapid, and leap for joy as they broke
his frail tackle, and he has seen them panting with the gaff in their
sides and the dark blood streaming over their resplendent scales, as his
quick-eyed assistant had secured them at the moment the hook was tearing
out. Aye, he once had the good luck of having one that was thrown out of
water by the blow, the hook tearing out at the same time, caught on the
gaff ere he fell back into the watery grave of hope.
The glorious sport! Ye delvers after the ore of gold, hidden as it seems
to be in boxes of silk or bales of cotton, in bits of paper or leaves
of ledgers; ye weary crawlers through the streets of mammon, who think
the world is bounded by the four walls of your ambition; ye who have
been brought up to work, as though work were the aim of life instead of
the means of its improvement; ye who have laid up a few hundred for some
pet dissipation, a visit to Saratoga or Newport, or a fight with the
tiger--that man-eater--and ye who must watch every day over your
accumulated millions, lest a penny slip into a cranny and be lost, go to
the woods, where you will be surrounded by the sombre trees, where the
rocks will be your companions and the wind whisper and the stream
prattle to you. There you will learn how little it takes to render man
comfortable and happy, how but for his reckless passions and extravagant
desires all might be satisfied and plenty crown the human race. There,
where nature speaks to you in her beauty, in her grandeur, and
occasionally in her stupendous power; where the wonders of the universe
by day and night are ever present, like old friends; where there is
naught but the thin air between the Maker and his beings, you may learn
what will be more valuable some day than any treasure of gold or silver.
Breathe the pure air, shake off every ill that flesh is heir to; add to
your life, if you love it so well, a week for each day, and that a day
of never wearying enjoyment. Take rod and gun, aspire to cast the line
far and straight and light, feel the struggle of patience, perseverance,
skill, resolution, with brute strength and cunning; know the pleasurable
anxiety of the chase, the alternate hope and fear, and the final glory
of success. Learn the woodsman’s art, the “gentle craft of venerie,”
and wonder at the resources of the wilderness, and on your return thank
me not, if you can. But that you may do it well, read the following
prosy instructions carefully, for if they be not entertaining they be
useful.
The rod for salmon fishing should be from sixteen to twenty feet long;
one of sixteen, or even fifteen, if well made and elastic, will answer.
It must be strong and stiff, but not too heavy, and the further it will
cast the greater will be the success. Salmon are more wary than trout;
if they see a horrible, ill-shapen being, like man, lashing at them with
a long whip, they lie close to the bottom, and it is only by keeping
well out of sight, and never disturbing or approaching the pool, that
they can be tempted. A short rod, though it may be capable of casting
the requisite distance, will not give sufficient command nor enable the
angler to lift the fly with facility.
The fly must be cast straight, light, and as far as possible; it must be
put exactly upon the right ripple, and must fall like a snow-flake; it
should, if the water is still, be allowed to sink a few inches and then
drawn up to and along the surface a foot or so, again allowed to sink,
and so on till it is raised for another cast. It is not moved as
rapidly, nor with precisely the same tremulous motion as in trout
fishing. Often a long time passes before a fish, no matter how plenty
they may be, will rise; and when he does come, it is as often to play
with and slap at the fly as to take it. Nothing is more provokingly
exciting than to have a magnificent fish rush again and again at your
fly, leap over and around it, break near it or strike at it with his
tail, without, however, showing the slightest desire to take it in his
mouth.
A fish hooked foul, though he gives a great deal of trouble, and often
breaks the tackle, does not afford half the legitimate sport of one that
has the hook in the mouth.
When fish are playing thus, and it is fully determined that they will
not take the allurement presented them, no matter how attractive, it
becomes necessary to substitute another, and continue so doing till
their dainty palates are satisfied.
When they finally take hold, have a care for their first rush; the pain,
if pain they feel, or astonishment, drives them wild, and they dash and
fling themselves about, leap out of water, and carry on generally in a
manner to surprise weak nerves. Finding their efforts to escape vain,
they will dart down the nearest rapids, and here they must be followed
if the water is too shallow for the canoe, by the angler, with the
agility of the antelope. He must have feet, hands, and eyes for
everything. The fish must be guided through the safest current, the line
kept clear of rocks, while the angler must pursue his course through
pools and over ledges and bowlders, slippery with the water, and
requiring the sureness of foot of the chamois. On, on he must go,
regardless of falls or bruises, his reel making sweet music to the
uncoiling line, keeping within sight of his prey till the latter reaches
the next pool or resting-place. After an hour’s struggle in this, he may
take down another rapid in the same vigorous style. In these descents
the angler will find his gaff, if shod with iron, a great convenience
in steadying his steps, and heavy shoes with iron nails will in a
measure prevent his slipping and will obviate stone bruises, although
they are apt to break the delicate knees of the canoe, and should be
removed before getting into one, and moccasins or slippers substituted.
There is a well authenticated story of one fish that was struck at six
o’clock in the evening, followed down through three rapids, and finally
lost at half-past ten o’clock that evening.
Salmon will sulk, remaining motionless at the bottom for a long time
after they are wearied with an unsuccessful struggle, and must be
aroused with pebbles, bearing on the line, or in some other way. Many of
the pools in the Canadian waters have been worn out of clay banks, and
their sides under water are often perpendicular or overhanging. When the
fish sulks in one of these, the line cuts into the edge of this bank,
and is of course broken to pieces by the first rush.
Gentleness will do much with fish, as with other reasonable beings, and
a friend of mine saved a number in a pool above an impassable rapid,
where other anglers had pronounced fishing impracticable, by striking
and handling the fish with extreme delicacy till they were led to the
head of the pool away from the dangerous neighborhood.
There is no superlative salmon line made; the best, probably, plaited
silk, tapered and covered with a preparation to exclude the water; but
that in general use is of hair and silk plaited or twisted--a
combination that, as we elsewhere remark, is by no means advantageous; a
plain hair line is preferred by careful anglers, and simple silk will
answer. The leader should be of single gut, if round and strong, and may
be colored in tea. Double gut will break the rod but not save the fish.
The flies, contrary to the received opinion in Europe, should be dark,
especially clarets and browns, above all the impalpable “fiery brown,”
and of rather a small size, with a few larger for rough water. The reel
should be large enough to carry two hundred yards of line, although with
activity and a hundred an angler may make out.
As for the number of fish, even in the best streams, those who read
Lanmann must receive his statements with, to use a moderate term, some
allowance. Ten or twelve fish in the course of a day is excellent luck,
and will keep the angler sufficiently occupied and excited, but the
average good fishing through the season is not half that number, and
there are many blank days. The upper shore of the St. Lawrence furnishes
the largest fish, but New Brunswick the most abundant. The rivers in the
former are mostly leased to individuals by the government, and of course
closed to the public except by the consent of the lessees. That famous
association called the Hudson’s Bay Company, a kingdom within a kingdom,
until a few years ago, were sole proprietors of fishing rights, but
having taken pains worthy of our emulation to destroy the fish, the
government curtailed their privileges, and passed stringent laws and
regulations, which are set out in the appendix, for the preservation of
the fish.
The rivers of New Brunswick are still free.[9] The fly-fishing in Canada
lasts till the first day of September, and in New Brunswick till the
fifteenth; but the net fishing terminates earlier, and in Canada all
spearing or fishing by torchlight is stringently forbidden. These laws
are, strange as it may seem to us, enforced with commendable energy in
Canada, though in New Brunswick our mode of letting the people override
the laws prevails.
The best river in New Brunswick beyond all comparison, is the
Nipisiquit, emptying in the Bay of Chaleurs, and near it are several
almost as prolific.[10] In Lower Canada the Mingan, the Moisie, the
Busamite stand preëminent, but have many rivals. Directions for reaching
them have been given under the head of sea trout fishing, but instead of
taking a sail-boat, as there suggested, from any port on the river St.
Lawrence, the same might be done either from Bathurst or Prince Edward’s
Island, both of which are nearer the lower streams.
There are many excellent rivers on the coast of Labrador as far as the
Straits of Belle Isle, or even farther, and they would be well worth a
visit, either in one of our clipper yachts or in a fast schooner. Many
are entirely beyond the realms of civilization, and a pleasant party
might have a glorious time and abundant sport.
It would be necessary to take canoemen and canoes, or what is strongly
recommended, small, light flat-boats that can be rowed or poled by one
man, and which can be purchased for five dollars apiece at most of the
gulf seaports.
Arm yourself, then, with two good salmon rods; they may be so made us to
constitute a trout rod as well, not by any means one of those detestable
nondescripts called a general rod, but two rods distinct with joints
fitting to each other. Take with you two good lines, plenty of flies,
extra gut and hooks, leaders and feathers, and a strong hook gaff, but
not that dangerous, unwieldy instrument called a spring gaff. Thus
equipped, go forth conquering and to conquer, and may good luck attend
you. Seek any of the rivers we shall name, ascend them in your fragile
canoe, station yourself early in the morning or at the approach of
evening, choose your best fly, keep well out of view, cast far and
light, and may you many and many a time be rewarded with the fierce rush
of the mighty salmon, his struggle and final conquest, and may your
sleep be sound and your heart at rest amid nature’s primeval hills. May
the black flies and mosquitoes spare you, may the sand-fly not find you
out, may the heat be tempered to you by day and the cold by night, may
you not lose your footing too often, nor fall too hard, and may your
fish be the largest, strongest and bravest that ever were taken. May you
receive that mercy which you show, never drawing one drop of useless
blood, nor causing one unnecessary pang.
The aid of all good men and true is needed both by precept and example,
to save the tenants of the water from final extermination. By putting
restraint upon ourselves, never being guilty of wanton slaughter, by
steadily urging measures for the preservation of the game, and by
invariably obeying and compelling others to obey such laws as should be
passed, we may be able to leave to our children a heritage of pleasure
that bountiful nature has abundantly provided for ourselves. No fish are
more defenceless and more readily destroyed than trout and salmon;
there are certain prerequisites to the continuance of the species that
must be complied with. The fish must ascend to the fresh water to spawn,
and if prevented by an improperly constructed dam, will quit the
locality never to return.
It should be known that, contrary to the usually received opinion,
salmon cannot surmount a fall of much over ten feet; this, probably, is
the full extent of their powers. And in effecting this, much depends
upon the depth of water at its foot; the deeper it is the higher they
can leap. They do not take their tails in their mouths, according to the
ancient theory, to enable them to spring higher, but rush with their
utmost velocity from the bottom, and are carried by their momentum a
considerable distance out of water. Such a leap or a struggle against
strong rapids weakens them, and they must soon rest to recover strength
for another ascent. They thus congregate below each fall, and often make
many efforts before they overcome it. They usually move at night or
early in the morning. A dam of fifteen or twenty feet will effectually
exclude them from any stream, but may be rendered innocuous at small
expense by placing below the wasteway boxes of heavy wood, with a fall
of not over five feet from one to the other. A salmon leaps from the
river to the first, from that to the next, and so on till he has
overcome the barrier. A broad sluiceway leading at a moderate angle to
the pool below, will probably answer as well.[11]
The fish, as they enter the rivers, may be deterred from entering, or
all captured in nets spread entirely across the mouth, and when those
that do pass have reached the spawning beds, they are peculiarly
exposed to the cruel spear. At night, by this instrument, with the aid
of flambeaux, hundreds may be killed and many more wounded and left to
perish miserably. If they are to continue in reasonable numbers, nets
must not be set close together, the spawning beds must be undisturbed,
and the murderous spear utterly prohibited. With these precautions and a
regulation concerning the sized mesh that is used, this valuable source
of pleasure, health and profit may not only be retained but indefinitely
augmented; without such care the day is not far off when “the places
that knew them will know them no more,” when their bright sides will no
longer gleam beneath the waves or glisten as they gambol in the
sunlight, when the nets will cease to yield a return, when the
fishermen, longing regretfully for their most valuable prize, will find
their occupation gone, and honest and dishonest, fair fisherman and
sneaking poacher, alike be overwhelmed in one common ruin. Surely we
have too much good sense, too much public spirit, too much energy and
determination to submit to such a calamity; let us unite, then, in
repressing unseasonable and unlawful fishing, in preserving and
protecting the fish, and in restoring rivers that have been exhausted.
In the salt water, salmon never take the fly, and rarely bait of any
kind, although they feed on sand eels and small fish in addition to
shell-fish; but as they advance into brackish or fresh water, they
either miss their natural food and become hungry, or get accustomed to
feeding on grasshoppers and insects, and are deceived by the artificial
fly, and will at times take the bait.
When they leave the salt water, the sea-lice that have fastened to them
fall off, frequently to be replaced by fresh-water parasites, and this
is sometimes given as the reason for their leaving the sea so early in
the year, although they do not spawn till the Fall. While spawning they
are unfit to eat, and after the operation are utterly exhausted. In this
condition, when returning to the sea, they are termed kelts, the male
being distinguished as a kipper and the female as a baggit. As the
spawning season approaches, a curious cartilaginous hook grows from the
lower jaw, which is supposed to be a provision of nature to prevent an
unfortunate termination to the many desperate contests between the males
at that period.
The habits of salmon are by no means determined; in fact, little is
known positively about them. It has been even suggested that grilse are
a distinct species, although it is hardly doubted with us but they are
young salmon. Their times of visiting the fresh water are subject to
peculiar individual exceptions; in fact, it may be said there are two
opinions among fishermen, and persons who have watched salmon for twenty
and thirty years assert that some are ascending while others are
descending. Izaak Walton says that salmon spawn in August, which is
directly contrary to the views of other English writers, and certainly
not in accordance with the practice of our fish. Others again say they
return to the salt water in September, and reascend the rivers later in
the Fall. The young in all stages have been disputed over, and called by
divers names, such as pinks, smolts, parr, brandling, samlet, peal,
grilse, until one hardly knows what sort of fish he really has
captured. Every writer has his theory, and the following is mine; it may
be true or not, but the statements of fact are.
Salmon are never found in our rivers except in three stages: First, a
little fish much like a trout, but with a larger eye and richer colors;
they have no blue spots, but have darker bands on their sides; they
weigh from half an ounce to half a pound. Second, the grilse, which is
precisely like a salmon, except that it weighs from two and a half to
six pounds. Third, the salmon, which weighs from eight to eighty pounds.
Salmon first appear in the fresh water about the 10th of June, and
grilse a month later. The main run of the former is from June 15th to
August 15th in New Brunswick, and from June 10th to July 20th in Canada.
The explanation of this difference is simple: the Canadian fish are much
the largest, averaging double the size of their more southern brethren,
and as the waters fall during the hot months of Summer, they must ascend
earlier than smaller fish, and before the spring freshets have entirely
subsided, or they would never reach the high waters at all. Straggling
fish, however, are running up at all seasons, early and late, and a few
probably remain in the fresh water the entire year, or descend only when
they are sickened by a lengthened residence in an unchanged element.
Salmon do not spawn in Summer, but in Winter, commencing not earlier,
and often later, than October; the fish that ascend last probably spawn
last. Then they return to the sea; but not at once, some remaining under
the ice through the Winter, others going immediately. My theory,
therefore, is that the young fish, whether you
[Illustration: CARP.]
call them fry, or pinks, or smolts, or peal, go to the sea usually a
year after their birth, but with no invariable regularity, and will then
average six ounces in weight, many undoubtedly waiting till the Fall, or
eighteen months after birth; that they return the succeeding July
grilse;[12] that the grilse spawn the following November, and after
visiting the sea, reappear next Spring as salmon. The young fish are
taken with the fly through the Summer in all the salmon rivers, and
require a second glance to distinguish them from young trout, although
they are very different, one decisive peculiarity being that their backs
are arched or hogged, and another, as I have mentioned, that their eyes
are large. The fry of trout--and recollect grown trout are not
banded--have light sides, and are found usually in more quiet water. It
would be well if sportsmen should call the fish in question respectively
salmon fry, grilse, and salmon, and eschew all other fanciful names, as
leading only to confusion.
Salmon are never taken in fresh water with any food in their stomachs;
they are reported not to eat their young, and do not apparently feed on
flies. The fry feed almost entirely on flies, and I have seen them pick
off one after another as skillfully as a trout; but I have never
distinctly seen a salmon take a natural fly. When they spring out of
water, it is in play, and at such times, contrary to the rule with
trout, casting over them will be in vain, they will not rise. Moreover,
our flies do not in the least resemble the natural flies of the rivers,
which are of a dull green, and the salmon rivers afford very few flies
at best. Observe me, I do not refer to mosquitoes or black gnats, at
neither of which would gentlemanly fish deign to look. My theory,
therefore, is, that salmon do not feed during the spawning season, but
are supported by the animalculæ in the water, and have poor commons at
that, as their miserable condition soon testifies. Many varieties of
fish live without apparent food, often with the additional disadvantage
of infrequent change of water, as goldfish in a globe.
When salmon first arrive in the harbors, they coast along the shore, and
are then taken in nets, which are required by law to have a mesh too
large to capture grilse; later, they leave the warm shallows, and follow
the cooler channel beyond the nets, which are only permitted to extend a
certain distance. The tide-water fishing is therefore practically over
by the 1st of August. Net fishing above the salt water is forbidden, or
at least subject to the same restrictions, which, if they were enforced,
would almost put an end to it; but, discreditable as it may seem, and
short-sighted as such conduct unquestionably is, this law is totally
disregarded in many rivers, where of course the fish are rapidly
diminishing. They spawn over gravelly flats and pools, covering up the
ova after impregnation, and then descend slowly, greatly emaciated, ugly
and woe-begone, to the sea. At such times, although they will still take
the fly, they are unfit to eat, and while they notwithstanding
frequently fall a victim to the cruel spear of the murderous savage, no
true angler nor honest man will harm them.
Casting the fly gracefully and effectively is a peculiar art, hard to
acquire, and picturesque to witness; it is altogether different from
slashing the water, and almost as difficult of mastery as the
corresponding science of trout fishing. The rod, being long and
comparatively heavy, must be held in both hands, which are changed
occasionally so as to alternate that at the but, and teach the angler to
cast over either shoulder. The line is lengthened to the proper
distance, is raised with a springing jerk, swung out straight behind,
and then again cast forward with the same springy motion. The work has
to be done with the tip, which, except in casting against the wind, must
be kept as elevated as possible. The stiffer the rod the more command
the angler has over his line in avoiding the rocks and making the best
of awkward places; but this is counterbalanced by the disadvantages of
excessive weight and a stiffness in striking that frequently breaks the
casting line. A rod will cast four times its length beyond the tip; one
of sixteen feet, therefore, will cast sixty-four feet of line,
ordinarily abundant; and although one of twenty feet will cover sixteen
more feet, unless it is made of cedar it is uncomfortably heavy. A cedar
rod would be perfection, but it is not to be trusted in the hands of a
bungler.
When there is any current, and it is rare to take salmon elsewhere, the
fly is cast across the stream and allowed to swing over the fish, which
invariably lie with their heads up-stream. When a salmon intends to
rise, he generally separates himself from his companions and waits till
the fly approaches to the precise distance that pleases him. Then
“Strike for your altars and your homes,”
not too hard, but as quick as the lightning from the sky, and this
although contrary to the English books, on the ground that a salmon, if
he rises once and fails to touch the fly, will always come again. If,
however, he has tasted the unappetizing morsel, and has not been hooked,
for he is quick to spit it out, you will see him no more. If you fail to
hook a fish on the first rise, it is well if you can keep your
impatience under control, to rest him by casting elsewhere a few times,
and if you fail to strike him on the third rise, change your fly. Salmon
are extremely particular and dainty in their tastes, and it is never
advisable to fish too long with one fly unless they take it well.
The great rules are--keep out of sight, change your flies and rest the
pools. The best time of a clear day is early and late, and in the midday
heat not a boat nor a line should disturb the water; in fact, a pool
that a canoe has crossed is ruined for the day, and when there is no
rising, there is little good in casting. A pool that is not disturbed at
night would be found much better, as a consequence, in the morning.
But after your fish is hooked, after he is played and almost played out,
after you have exhausted him, and brought him skillfully and carefully
to shore, he is not yet in the pot; nor will he be unless you have an
assistant expert with the gaff. There are all sorts of directions about
this important operation, some authors saying a fish must be gaffed in
the shoulder, others preferring the tail, some the belly, and some the
back, but, in fact, one place is as good another; the main points are
not to miss nor graze him, and not to jerk so hard as to throw him off
the gaff. To prevent this, where you anticipate finding only awkward
aids, it is well to carry a gaff with a small barb, like an ordinary
hook. I have had the indescribable pleasure of seeing my fish flung
across the boat, and dropped in the water on the other side. The moment
the fish is struck, the handle should be held perpendicular, so that he
cannot flounce off.
The best size for this implement is a length of nine inches from the end
of the shank to the middle of the bend, from the latter four inches in a
straight line to the point, which should be delicate and sharp, and at
least two inches and three-eighths from the inner edge of the shank
opposite; the bend should swell out so as to be three inches across at
its widest, and the end of the shank must be bent back and sharpened;
the steel tapers gradually from the point to a thickness of one quarter
of an inch. Being nothing more than a large hook, it is easily carried,
and when wanted for use, fastened to any suitable stick by driving in
the projection on the shank, and winding the whole with stout cord. For
very large salmon, a stronger and larger gaff would be desirable, and
for grilse a smaller one.
When fish run, and throw themselves out of water, some writers direct
you to taughten your line; but I say, heed them not. Your line is well
out and sunk to some distance, the very jump of the fish will
consequently bring a great strain on the hook, without your aid, and
many a fish is lost by such usage. On the contrary, if you give to him
as he leaps, you diminish the tension, and then the quicker you take up
the line after he has fallen back, the better. If, on the contrary, when
he leaps he is near by you, and your line straight and out of water, he
will try and strike it with his tail to break it, in which he may also
be foiled by giving to him. My experience is to this effect, and you
will soon find out, if the fish are large and strong, how hard it is to
do otherwise.
It has been said that four times the length of the rod beyond the tip is
the utmost length of line that can be handled with dexterity; it is not
meant that more cannot be cast, for I have often cast five times the
length, but with an effort that soon becomes wearisome, and, if across a
rapid current, without the requisite command. It is best to fish down
stream, if possible, as otherwise your line sinks, and even in fishing
across there will be considerable slack line. This is a second reason
for rapid striking. There is another mode of managing a line, which is
sometimes called casting, and by which a distance of eighty yards can be
covered. The angler has a rod as thick at the tip as one’s little
finger, and a hair line as thick as the tip. Of course no reel can be
used, as such a line would not run through the rings, or be contained on
the barrel. The line tapers regularly to the fly. It is usually used in
rapid water, and to cast, the fisherman waives his rod from side to
side, lifting as much of it as possible clear of the water, and then
throws out strongly with an underhand motion. The line rolls, as it
were, raising itself from the water, as the impetus advances, till the
fly is taken up and jerked over, so to speak, at an incredible distance.
When a fish is struck he is drawn in by hand. I have not tried this
proceeding sufficiently to speak positively, but think that the heavy
waxed lines now in general use would answer to a comparative degree. It
is a difficult though not refined mode of fishing, and is the only way
of casting eighty yards.
The following is a list of the principal salmon and trout rivers of
Canada and New Brunswick, with the distances of the former from Quebec,
and such information as could be obtained concerning their character and
condition. Those marked in _italics_ have been leased to private
individuals, but the leasing changes year by year.
The _Jacques Cartier_ is the only river near Quebec
which, at the present time, affords any salmon.
From Quebec to Murray Bay is 78 miles.
Here there is a river that furnishes a few salmon and
many fine trout.
From Murray Bay to the Saguenay is 44-120
There is excellent sea trout fishing in the Saguenay
and its tributary, the _St. Marguerite_, is a superior salmon
river.
River Escoumain 23
Between it and the Saguenay are the two _Bergeronnes_,
and both furnish a few salmon and many trout.
Portneu 26
Plenty of trout and some salmon.
_Sault de Cochon_ 9
Impassable for salmon, but affording excellent trout
fishing at its mouth.
_La Val_ 2
Superior salmon and trout river.
Bersamis miles 24-84
Affording in its tributaries many fine salmon; between
it and the La Val are the Colombia, Plover and Blanche,
all poor salmon streams.
Outardes 11
Manicouagan 16
Mistassini 12
Betscie 3
Of these rivers I can obtain no satisfactory information.
_Godbout_ 15-57-261
A celebrated salmon river, one of the best in the
province.
_Trinity_ 15
Good salmon and trout fishing.
Little Trinity 10
Calumet 3
Pentecost 14
Not a salmon river.
St. Margaret 36
One of the best salmon and trout rivers.
_Moisie_ 24-103-364
Fine large salmon are taken in this river, and it is
widely celebrated.
Trout 7
Manitou 35
Good trout fishing; the salmon are obstructed by
falls.
Sheldrake 16
Magpie 22
Furnishes a few salmon.
St. John 5
An admirable salmon stream.
Mingan 16-101-465
Probably the best river in the province for salmon,
and excellent for trout.
Romaine 9
An excellent stream for both salmon and trout.
Wascheeshoo 53
Pashasheboo 18
A few salmon.
Nabesippi 7
Agwanus 5
A fair supply of salmon.
Natashquan 14-106-571
Salmon fine and abundant.
Kegashka 23
Salmon impeded by falls.
Musquarro 15
Affords good salmon fishing.
Washeecootai 12
Olomanosheebo 11
Coacoacho 18
Contains some salmon.
Etamamu 21
Fine salmon fishery.
Netagamu 16
A fine trout stream.
Mecattina 4
Good salmon fishing.
Ha Ha 9
St. Augustine 6
Affords many salmon.
Esquimaux 14-149-720
An excellent salmon river, somewhat run down.
*/
In New Brunswick there are salmon in the St. John and its tributaries,
but the best of the latter, the Nashwaak, has been closed with an
impassable dam. From St. John it is easy to take the cars to Shediac,
and cross to Prince Edward’s Island, where there is magnificent trout
fishing, especially near Charlotte, and tolerable accommodation; or one
can take the Quebec steamer to Bathurst and fish the Nipisiquit, which
is admitted to be the best river in the province, or the Restigouche and
its tributaries, an excellent stream, but much injured by spearing; or
the Cascapediacs, which furnish some salmon and innumerable grilse. The
Miramichi, between Shediac and Bathurst, is a fine large stream.
The streams in Canada emptying into the St. Lawrence from the south
shore, are hardly worth mentioning as salmon rivers, having been ruined
by mill-dams, with the exception of those that empty into Gaspé basin,
but they all afford superior trout fishing. I would here remark, that
where the name trout is mentioned in connection with the British
Provinces, the _Salmo Trutta Marina_, or sea trout, is always intended;
and the salmon fishing spoken of is fly fishing. The rivers that empty
into Gaspé basin, such as the Dartmouth, York and St. John, are leased,
as also the Bonaventure, that flows into the Bay of Chaleurs.
As explicit directions for travelling through the benighted regions
called the British Provinces, the following are given from a somewhat
unwillingly extended experience.
Take the night train or any route that will bring you to Boston before
half past seven A.M., for at that hour the boat leaves for St. John, not
St. Johns, which is in Newfoundland. If you are too late, you may still,
by means of the cars, intercept the same vessel at Portland. This boat
does not leave daily, but generally advertises in the New York and
always in the Boston papers. It touches at Portland, where you may take
a steamboat on its arrival to Calais, and proceed thence by railroad to
the Scoodic River, where there is fine white, not sea, trout fishing, or
stop at St. Andrews, whence there is a railroad in progress to
Woodstock, on the St. John River. The Boston boat reaches St. John in
about thirty-two hours, or at three o’clock; the fare is six dollars;
the meals extra, and, consequently, extra good.
The Waverley House, in St. John, kept by J. Scammell, affords the best,
though poor, accommodation, at a reasonable price. A train leaves on the
arrival of the boat for Shediac, and makes the one hundred and ten miles
in six hours, at a fare of three dollars. From Shediac a steamboat that
connects with the train carries you to Chatham in twelve hours for three
dollars and fifty cents, the meals being extra and infamous. At Shediac,
John Q. Adams keeps the Adams House, and will furnish information by
letter as to the time of the starting of the boats. Bowser’s Hotel is
the best in Chatham. From Chatham to Bathurst, forty-five miles, you are
compelled to travel in a stage that only leaves three times a week, and
never on the arrival of the boat, and will occupy ten hours of your time
at a charge of three dollars and a half; or you may take an extra for
sixteen dollars. If you hire one of Kelley, the stage proprietor, make a
tight bargain, for he is Biblical and takes in strangers. In case you
should be too late to reach Bathurst the same day, or have leisure on
your hands, stop at the Half-way House on the Tabasintac, which has the
last syllable accentuated, and fish that night and the next morning for
sea trout. They are taken from a horse-boat in abundance and of great
size.
In Bathurst there is a good hotel called the Wellington, kept by Mr.
Baldwin, with the efficient aid of Mary; and also a more private
establishment, by Bela Packard, which is the customary resort of
Americans. There is a telegraph from St. John to Bathurst, and Baldwin
will meet at Chatham any guests that send him word, and bring them to
Bathurst for fourteen dollars. In the latter place, Ferguson, Rankin &
Co. will furnish all the heavy outfit, such as pork, biscuit, butter,
tea, sugar, tobacco, and will have them ready put up if written to
beforehand. As it is customary on the Nipisiquit to loan the guides
blankets, the same firm keep them on hand, and will lend them to those
that buy stores of them. Once or twice a month the Arabian leaves
Shediac and stops within a couple of miles of Bathurst, and if you can
manage to suit your time to hers, you can go direct and be ticketed
through for ten dollars. Her days may be ascertained at the office of
the Boston boats, but it is well to telegraph to Bathurst to have a
canoe to meet you, as otherwise you may have difficulty in reaching
town from the landing. The same steamer and its associate, the Lady
Head, run to Dalhousie, at the mouth of the Restigouche, or a stage for
that place leaves Bathurst three times a week. The Lady Head does not
stop at Bathurst, on account of her draught of water.
On the Nipisiquit it is customary to have a camp-keeper or cook for the
party, and two canoemen to each angler; they furnish the canoe and
receive one dollar a day each. The following are good men: John, Peter
and Bruno Chamberlain; John makes a good fly, but is sulky and willful;
Bruno is lazy; Ned Veno and David Buchet, both of whom are excellent and
willing, and Fabian Bodereau, who is a fair cook. To save your men some
heavy work, where you do not intend to fish the Rough Waters, you drive
with your stores to the Round Rocks, the Pabineau Falls, or, if you
please, even to the Grand Falls, but the latter part of the road is bad.
The only fishing on the Miramichi is above Boiestown, and to reach it
you leave St. John in the night or day boat for Fredericton, arriving
there in eight hours at an expense of one dollar and a half. The night
boat runs three times a week. The best house in Fredericton is the
Barker House, kept by Mr. Fairweather, and in this city you must get
your supplies for the woods. The stage leaves every Tuesday and Friday
for Boiestown, nominally at ten A.M., and reaches that collection of
huts nominally at six P.M. The fare is two dollars and a half, and the
ordinary charge for an extra is ten dollars, but remember the stage
proprietor is Kelley. The best tavern in Boiestown is kept by Avery, but
about five miles up the river, at Campbelltown, is a nice house owned
by William Wilson, and the true plan is either to write to him to meet
you at Fredericton, or drive over to his place. He will engage your men,
aid you with the supplies, provide you with bread, besides making you
generally comfortable, and you have gained so much in the ascent of the
river. The stage from Boiestown runs to Chatham, and by that means you
may continue to the Nipisiquit, but there is no reliance to be placed on
it, and an extra from Fredericton to Chatham, one hundred and ten miles,
costs thirty dollars. The stage fare is seven, and there is no telegraph
to Boiestown.
One of the most interesting ways of reaching the various rivers of New
Brunswick is by portaging from the head-waters of one into those of
another. For instance, a steamboat leaves Fredericton semi-weekly, when
the water is not too low, for the Grand Falls on the St. John; a few
miles above, the Grand River debouches, from the head-waters of which a
short portage of a few miles takes you into the Waugan, one of the
branches of the Restigouche, or you may stop below the Falls and ascend
the Tobique, a noble river, full of salmon, but which, strange to say,
will not take the fly, and from Lake Nictou, the source of the Tobique,
you can readily portage into Lake Nipisiquit, and by ascending the main
forks of the latter, a short portage puts you on the Upsalquitch, a
branch of the Restigouche, and abounding in salmon. Another confluent of
the St. John, the Shiktahauk, is crossed at its head by the Royal Road,
where a wagon can be had to convey your baggage to a branch of the
Southwest Miramichi, and from Newcastle, at the mouth of the latter
river, you can ascend the Northwest Miramichi and strike the Nipisiquit
near the Grand Falls. These are but a few of the simplest voyages that
may be made, but a glance at the map, or a talk with any old Indian
guide, will reveal many others.[13]
CHAPTER VI.
NEW BRUNSWICK.
One bright moonlight night in the early part of Summer, a heavy wagon,
drawn by two powerful horses, was bowling along one of the dreary level
roads of the province of New Brunswick. It was loaded down with trunks
on the rack, barrels under the seats, that were built on springs above
the sides for that purpose, and bundles and bags innumerable in the
bottom, and two long leathern cases that suggested salmon rods. It
carried three men; the driver, tall and spare, with a shrewd eye, and
long, curly, black hair, was turned half-way round in the seat, assuming
an attitude that combined comfort with facility of conversation. On the
back seat, a middle aged gentleman, whose hair and beard were silvered
o’er, but whose eye was bright as in his earliest youth, and a younger
man of stout build with brownish hair and beard. Their talk was of the
forest, and many thrilling tales of danger, or exciting ones of the
chase, were told; vivid descriptions of how the moose, the caribou, the
red deer, met his fate; stories of the tiger, the wild boar, the
rhinoceros and unwieldy elephant; or peaceful description of killing the
beautiful trout, the fierce, striped bass, or the voracious mascallonge.
The time wore pleasantly away as they passed along between the sombre
lines of spruce and hemlock and juniper, as they ran into the deep shade
or emerged into the open moonlight till they came in sight of the
Nashwaak, seaming the dark earth like a vein of silver, when a glorious
view presented itself to their attention. Far away as the eye could
reach, stretched the valley of Nashwaak, silent as the repose of death;
not a sound but the rattle of the wheels broke the still air, while the
moon bathed the rocks, the earth, the trees, with its uncertain light,
formed weird shapes out of the foliage, or cast strange shadows across
the road. Still on, however, scarcely pausing--as every true sportsman
must pause before the beauties of nature--the party were soon lost in
the shady descent that led toward the bank of the stream, whose course
they followed some miles, crossing it beyond, over a high, substantial
bridge. The road then branched off, traversing the unbroken wilderness,
where for miles not a habitation was visible, till midnight found them
amid a heavy shower at McCloud’s, the half-way house from Fredericton to
Boiestown.
The horses under the shed, a sound thumping on the door brought out the
host, who attended to the wants of man and beast, and sent them on their
way rejoicing, as soon as the storm had abated. There was little variety
in the scene; the road was mostly level and good, the forest was of the
same dull character, with many dead trunks towering up amid it; there
were few houses and no settlements, and the country was principally one
vast plain. As the morning light began to streak the east with grey,
they came in sight of the peaceful Miramichi, and turning off from the
main road across the Taxes River, followed the course of the larger
stream, till, nearly opposite a beautiful spring, where they had stopped
to water their horses, they turned into a barway, and in a moment more
reached Wilson’s, their prospective head-quarters.
Wilson’s habitation was a quaint-looking log house, perched on the edge
of a bank overhanging what is called the interval, or fruitful stretch
of level land lying between the river and the hills, and its evident
antiquity bore testimony that it had belonged to one of the earliest
settlers.
A well-stocked garden, an extensive barn, a large drove of sheep and
cows, suggested what an industrious and comely wife and daughter
confirmed, that Wilson’s was a well-to-do family.
As a general thing, the people of this region are of the most
short-sighted possible character; they live for the present, and an easy
way of making a dollar is irresistible, though it may entail the final
loss of ten. The country is slowly going back to a savage condition;
farmers, instead of attending to their farms, speculate in lumber,
because it enriches one man in fifty; mortgage their farms, which are
sold under foreclosures to strangers and allowed to grow up with weeds
and bushes. Tens of thousands of acres are in this condition, and are
being fast rendered irreclaimable. Instead of encouraging fishermen to
come and spend money among them, although they admit it is about the
only money they see, they annoy and overcharge at such a rate that they
have driven away all but a few from Fredericton. Instead of preserving
and increasing the fish, they obstruct the channel entirely with nets,
striving by one grand haul to destroy the supply forever. To this
general rule Wilson is the only exception, and may be relied on, not
only to do whatever in reason is required of him, but to do it at a
moderate price. His only extravagant charge is for driving to
Fredericton to meet his guests.
The guides were waiting for us, and after making the requisite
preparations and passing a comfortable night in the old log house, we
started next day on our journey toward the head-waters of the Miramichi.
Our canoes were made of the log of a tree, and familiarly called
dug-outs, and were admirably adapted to the purpose. Being extremely
long, sometimes thirty feet, and narrow, they offer every convenience
for poling, draw but little water, and are not injured by contact with a
rock, that would pierce the thin bark of the delicate birch canoe, and
will hold their way better against a strong rapid. They are made of the
trunk of some towering branchless pine-tree that the adventurous
woodsman has marked during the winter for his own, and which, after
being cut down, is transported to a convenient place, where it is hewn
into the shape of the outside of the boat. Augur holes are bored in the
bottom, and pegs, two inches long, are driven, to answer for guides as
to thickness. The inside is then roughly hewn away, till the pegs are
reached, when it is smoothed off, being left two inches thick at the
bottom, and a half inch at the gunwale. Slender knees are introduced at
proper distances to prevent its warping under the sun; a brace is
fastened across from gunwale to gunwale, near the stem and stern, and
the boat is complete. It is worth about twelve dollars, and having
neither braces nor thwarts, but an open space its entire length, is
convenient for holding a long rod, and being steadier under foot, offers
many advantages over the birch canoe. It is particularly excellent in
descending a shallow river, where occasional contact with rocks is
inevitable; but is too heavy to portage comfortably. For rapid travel,
either up or down stream, it is invaluable.
Our baggage was stowed, a comfortable seat made with the end of the tent
upon the bottom of the canoe, our rods were rigged out for an occasional
cast, and we commenced the ascent of the “Smiling Water.” There had been
heavy and continuous rains, and quite a freshet had now changed its
ordinary placid exterior into one of angry turbulence. The river poured
down fierce and wild, crested with foam and discolored with sand and
decayed matter. But we made swift progress; starting five miles above
Boiestown, we soon passed the last settlement, and entering among the
mountains, amid which flows the upper stream, trusted ourselves alone to
the dangers of the wilderness, to the mercy of the black-flies for our
comfort, and to our skill as sportsmen for our support.
Ten months of close confinement in the city, years amid the horrors of
civilization, had well prepared us to appreciate a return to man’s
natural state of savage life; long contact with vice and folly had made
us eager to taste once more of truth and purity, the communion with
nature uncorrupted and unsullied; to feel the air blow through the
waving trees instead of down narrow streets; to hear the water rippling
over its native bed, and not through Croton pipes; to see the sun shine
from out the blue sky, instead of being reflected amid murk and smoke
from heated bricks.
The spruce and fir-trees stretched in solid mass like a green wall on
either side; occasionally, a white pine loomed above them, or a birch,
with its satin bark, broke the dull hue; or where the landscape was more
open, the graceful elm or willow stood forth in solitary beauty; and the
juniper, with its endless names of hackmatac, tamarack, larch or
cypress, waved its weird arms aloft; or the light, quivering poplar,
with its never-resting leaves, cast an uncertain shade.
The weather had been changeable all day, occasionally bright and
pleasant, the next moment dark and lowering--now the sun shining bright
and warm over the hillsides, then the rain driving in spiteful showers
and veiling them in mist. The storm no sooner forced on our overcoats
than the sunshine persuaded them off. Toward night, when heavier and
blacker clouds obscured the sky, we determined to camp, and chose a
point opposite a little tributary rivulet called Sandy Brook.
That evening and the next day were passed completing our camp equipage
of tables, chairs, basins, and various little articles, and in waiting
for the river to fall. During this time one of those pleasant incidents
occurred that are intensely enjoyed in rough woodsman’s life; two
gentlemen who had been up the river and were returning, stopped and
dined with us. There was a grand discussion over flies, resulting in a
mutual exchange, and a general mourning over the condition of the water,
with, however, the encouragement that the freshet had destroyed the
nets and let the fish up to the higher grounds.
Next day we killed our first fish of the season. I had gone above the
island at the head of the pool opposite our camp, and was fishing slowly
down, taking occasionally a brook trout, when there came a heavier rise,
a louder plash, and a fierce run that made my reel discourse sweetly.
The fish had struck me in the broken water, and it was uncertain what he
was till suddenly he sprang twice his length out of water, showing the
silvery sides and gleaming scales of the lovely grilse; again and again
he sprang in air, making the water fly as he fell back, and doing his
best to break the line or shake out the hook. Bravely he fought, taking
advantage of the current to run out line, and rubbing against rocks to
cut it through. In vain, foiled at each attempt, his strength rapidly
diminishing, he was slowly brought nearer and nearer, till a dexterous
blow of the gaff finished the struggle.
Joyful at the good omen, we hastened to our camp, and were met by my
companion, Dalton, who proudly exhibited a similar trophy. There was a
grand supper that night, and strong hopes that the flood would abate,
hopes that were destined to a cruel disappointment when next day the
stream was found to be higher than ever, and heavy clouds portended a
second deluge.
Our next camp was at Still Water Brook, a name that the present
condition of that streamlet strongly belied. We did not, however, remain
long, our sport being confined to grilse, and not many of those, and
when an English officer, who had been fishing above, called to say he
had taken all the fish he wanted at a station further on, we broke up
camp at once, to the great disgust of our lazy cook, who thought he had
cut his “sprunghungle,” or stick that supports the kettle over the fire,
for the last time. We pushed on to Burnt Hill, a famous camping-ground
among all those that fish the Miramichi, and there, on the open point
near the rock at whose base is the deep pool where salmon lie when the
water is warm we established our sylvan home for the last time.
Burnt Hill is so named from having been burnt over, years ago, and is
still a mass of dead and blackened trunks, that tower in fantastic
shapes toward the sky. Next morning, having selected my choicest cariboo
fly, Abraham pushed the canoe across the boiling torrent, so that I
could fish near the rocky shore opposite. Having made several casts
toward the bank, he swung the canoe in, and, running its nose on a rock,
gave me a chance to fish the centre of the channel. I had hardly cast,
when from out the curling wave rushed a mighty monster, which gleamed a
moment in the sunshine and disappeared. I felt a heavy, dull strain on
my rod, the fish swam deep and seemed unconscious of what had happened.
Then, suddenly aroused to his danger, a magnificent salmon rushed
down-stream and vaulted high out of water. Abraham glanced at me; I
returned the look, but not one word was spoken. The fish returned to his
former station, as though disdaining a struggle with a fragile cord and
contemptible fly, and remained there some moments, heavily swimming
round and round. Suddenly he became alarmed, and away he went, thirty
yards at least, the line whistling through the rings and the reel
hissing with the speed. He made a splendid leap and paused.
I had just time to tell Abraham to swing his boat off the rock where she
was resting, when the fish started again. Down he darted; the rod bent,
the line flying through the water, and after him came the pursuers. He
hesitated an instant above the worst rapids, and then sped down them;
once in a while I could see him amid the foam and flying spray, as he
rolled himself half out of water over some heavy wave; but my attention
was occupied in keeping the line clear of rocks, and not exerting too
much strain upon it. Admirably did Abraham handle the canoe. He was
alone; the water seethed and boiled round us broken into a mass of
fierce waves, small cascades and gleaming foam. It poured with raging
current over high bowlders, and swept between narrow rocks. He stood
erect in the stem, his eye, taking the measure of every falls, the
strength of every eddy; he swung the canoe’s head first one way then
another, easing her down over the higher waves, that, curling against
the stream, broke over the bow in mimic showers, and pushing strongly
through the circling eddies. Not a rock did he touch, not a moment did
the boat escape from perfect command, and when we were launched upon the
quiet bosom of the deep pool at the foot of Burnt Hill Rapids, the fish
was on the line. We each drew a long breath and again exchanged glances.
It was a beautiful spot to kill a fish. The water, all white and raging
above, formed a broad eddy, that washed the base of the rock on which I
now stood. Although there was still a strong current in the centre, an
expanse of clear water spread out at our feet, into which, after each
rush, the fish could be easily led, and where his mad leaps were the
only risk. It was our first fish, and I exercised the utmost care; not
till he was almost dead did I force him to the surface, where Abraham,
with one blow of his gaff, brought our prize to land.
What a beauty she was! The small, delicate head pronounced her a female,
the destined parent of myriads cut off in her prime. The brilliancy of
her flashing scales gave token that not long since had she been roaming
free from danger along the shores of the seacoast, and her broad back
and deep chest announced her heavy weight. Glorious in her outward
appearance, our keen appetites pictured to our imaginations the rich red
flesh in layers, with flakes of pearly fat between, the delicate thin
sides of the stomach, the depth of solidity in her broad back. Our
thoughts dwelt for a moment on the fine juicy flavor her fifteen good
pounds would furnish for many a meal. But above all did we recollect
with pride how well both of us had done in killing the first salmon in
the Miramichi.
Mr. Dalton had been watching the contest from the bank opposite, and we
returned together to the camp, where libations were duly poured forth in
honor of our first capture, and preparations were made for a grand
entertainment.
That evening around the fire, after supper was finished, and the genial
pipe was soothing as well as invigorating our minds, and after several
personal adventures had been related, Duncan commenced the following
history of
THE GHOST OF DEADMAN’S LANDING.
“You saw that point of land we came by the other day, where I told you a
dead man was carried out from the woods? Well, I was there when he was
killed. We had been logging in the woods, and doing pretty well till we
tried to draw out an uncommon heavy stick of timber. Sam Masters was
with us--we used to call him Swearing Sam, from a bad habit he was given
to--and Sam had taken a great idea to have that stick of timber taken
out before night; but the horses were tired and it was late, and after
we had dragged it part of the way all but Sam proposed to leave it till
to-morrow. But Sam insisted that he was not going to give up, and when
we all agreed to quit, he got mad and swore he would have that timber
out alone if he had to go to hell for it, and work till the day of
judgment. We tried to persuade him off, but stay he would, and we left
him with the horses and returned to our camp, which we had made at the
landing. After supper was finished, and it began to be late, we became
anxious about Sam, and when he did not arrive, at near midnight, all
hands set out to look him up.
“We had not much trouble to find the horses; they felt cold and hungry,
and were neighing for their supper, but were surprised to see the log
rolled off the truck, and Sam gone. But the next thing we noticed was
Sam’s head just out from the edge of the log, that lay across his body.
It was an awful sight; the moon was shining bright on his face, that was
turned up toward the sky, but all swollen and discolored, with the eyes
wide open and starting out of their sockets, and his tongue sticking out
of his mouth, and the blood frozen round his nostrils and the corners of
his lips. He must have been dead for hours. We had a hard time to roll
the log off, and then he was mashed all out of shape, so we carried him
the best way we could to the shanty, and next day wrapped him in a
blanket and took him down the river. His wife was all struck of a heap
when she saw him, for Sam was a good husband; if he did swear more than
he ought, he never swore at her.”
“He would have been squelched sooner if he had,” put in Dalton, _sotta
voce_.
“We felt pretty bad,” continued Duncan; “but after a few days had to go
back and finish hauling the logs, for we had a lot cut. It was cold
weather, and the wind howled through the pines till sometimes, at night,
we almost thought we heard hallooing in the woods, but no one cared to
go out and see. About two weeks after our return, I happened to leave my
axe where I was chopping, and as snow had begun to fall pretty fast, and
it might be snowed over, I went back after it. I had forgotten precisely
where it was left, and lost a good deal of time looking about, all the
while the snow coming harder and harder, so that the track was soon
covered. That was not much matter, for I knew the country well; but it
was growing dark, and the snow blinded me, so that I could not see
plainly.
“You may believe I did not delay any; but after hurrying on as fast as
possible for an hour or two, thought things looked strange; the trees
grew thick and the ground rough and steep, and I could not tell where I
was. I searched about for some landmark, but it was almost dark, and
after trying in vain, and having a heavy overcoat with me, but no
matches, I was about to crawl under the roots of a dead tree and make
the best of it, when I heard somebody shouting in the distance.
“There is no mistake, but I was glad, and sung out back, and clambered
over the trees and stones toward the voice; but what was my surprise, on
approaching, to see our own team, and one of the boys driving. They had
no intention of hauling another log, and must have been foolish to think
of it in that snow; but, stranger than all, when I called, did not stop
or take any notice. To tell the truth, I began to feel mighty queer,
especially as the driver was shaped uncommon like Sam, and I suddenly
remembered that it was that night a month ago when he hauled his last
stick of timber. I followed slowly along and never said a word; the
driver, whoever he was, was riding on the log, and now and then his
voice shouted out what sounded in the storm mighty like a curse.
Suddenly the drag struck a stump, the horses made a spring, the log
started, the driver tried to jump, but slipped, and the log fell on him
with crushing force. There was an awful shriek in the next blast that
drove a shower of snow in my eyes, and when I looked again, horses, log
and man were gone. I knew well enough where I was then, and did not take
long to reach the camp, when the boys hardly knew me, I was so white and
dazed like.”
“Let us see,” said Abraham, holding his chin in a thoughtful way; “it
was after that you swore off liquor?”
“Yes,” said Robert. “The other boys hardly knew the liquor cask they had
left in the woods next day, if I have heard right.”
“You need not laugh, boys,” said Duncan, solemnly; “there is no fun in
seeing a ghost, and I had not taken more than a few drinks. Besides, you
know how, next year, when Jake, and Dick, and some others were in the
same camp, they heard Sam’s old chest, that we had left there, creak as
though some one had sat on it, and how the shanty door was taken off the
hinges and held upright in the middle of the floor. And the black dog
that left no track in the snow, but used to run along the ridge pole of
moonlight nights, when nobody was in the shanty; and, finally, how the
roof was all taken off when Tom’s party was there, and although it was
covered with snow, not a drop fell inside. No, no, spirits are no
laughing matters.”
“Especially prime spirits,” suggested the cook.
“Jamaica or Holland, but I never heard of New Brunswick spirits before,”
said Robert.
“Well, I can just tell you one thing,” said Duncan, aroused; “there is
not one of you dare sleep in that shanty alone. Come, I will pole any of
you down there to-morrow that would like to try. Who will go?”
A dead silence fell on the party, for, truth to tell, though bold enough
round the fire together, the dwellers on the Miramichi are a good deal
given to superstition, and not one of the party but some time or other
had fancied he heard Sam’s ghost shouting to his team of a stormy night
near the landing.
“Well,” said Abraham, slowly, “I never saw but one ghost. It was a
moonlight night, with a little snow on the ground, and I was alone,
crossing a cleared lot where the stumps stood pretty thick, when I
noticed, crouched down behind one of them, a figure of some sort that
looked like an old woman. It had no bonnet or hat, nothing but a cap on
its head; it wore a long, tattered dress, that blew about in the wind,
while I could just make out a pair of thin, white arms; but her face was
black as a coal. It is no use to say I was not scared, for I think I
was. There were some crazy people about at that time, who had escaped
from the madhouse; but I was pretty sure I could outrun any of them,
’specially a woman, and I knew it was no use running from ghosts, so I
concluded the best thing to do was to keep right along and pretend to
take no notice; but, do my best, I could not keep my eyes off the old
woman. I tried to whistle, but not a sound would come. I only blew a
little, and not very steady at that. I tried to sing, but the first note
I uttered made me jump ten feet; I thought it was somebody else’s voice,
as sure as fate. I had sidled off as far as I could on account of a
gully there was, and did not like to go down that for fear she should
think I was afraid. The distance between us was growing less and less,
and as I watched her sharper than ever, she appeared to make one or two
moves, and then stop; but all of a sudden, she jumped up, threw off her
clothes, and started after me. I uttered one yell, and turned; but, as
luck would have it, caught my foot in a root under the snow, and rolled
headlong down the steep side of the gully.
“I do not know what I said, I think I prayed; but I made considerable
noise, anyway, and poked my head into a bush, and tried to burrow under
the snow. This lasted some time; but hearing nothing more, and not
finding myself killed, my courage returned; I took out my head, and
slowly crawled up the bank. Peering carefully over the edge, I saw a
stump where the old woman had been crouching, burnt at the top, with
some snow on it; there was a dead bush and roots at the bottom, while a
little further off lay a quantity of dead birch bark, waving about in
the wind. ‘Abe,’ said I to myself, ‘you have been an awful fool to take
a fired stump, a little snow, and some birch bark for a ghost. Never do
so again.’ And I never have, and have never been so scared from that day
to this.”
After a hearty laugh at Abraham’s fright, Robert was called upon, and
responded as follows:
“I cannot tell you a ghost story, but one of as scared a man as ever was
seen. It happened at this very place, too, when we were camped on this
spot, and was brought to my mind by what you were reading to-day of the
man hunting a grizzly bear, and leaving off because the track got too
fresh. Jim Baker was with us. He had lived most of his life in the
settlements, and had only just come among us, but could play the fiddle
and sing a song, and must have had a good ear for music, for among the
first things he did was to learn to call moose. He was uncommonly proud
of the performance, and though he had never seen a moose, promised to
keep the camp in meat. Well, he kept calling all the time, and sure
enough one day, while we were camped here, a bull answered.
“A good hunter might call till he was grey before he could bring a moose
in broad daylight right up to the camp; but it was a fool’s luck, and
sure enough we soon heard him rapping through the bushes, and then jump
into the brook and begin wading down. Jim had out the gun, and started
off to crawl along the edge in the bushes to meet him. We could see them
both; Jim crept along as fast as he could at first, and the bull came
faster yet down the stream without showing a sign of fear. Soon Jim
began to go slower, and finally stopped altogether, while the moose kept
right on toward him, till he was within fifty yards, when he paused and
took a general survey. Jim raised the gun, but when he did so the animal
seemed to have his curiosity aroused, and advanced several steps toward
Jim, who lowered his gun, and backed a few paces till the moose stopped
again. Jim again raised the gun, and again the moose advanced and Jim
retreated. This went on till the moose became satisfied, and with a
snort bounded into the bushes and was gone. When Jim came back we asked
him why he did not shoot, and he said we need not think he was afraid;
he intended to shoot, but did not know how the gun carried ball.”
The next day my friend killed his first salmon, and strange to say, thus
we continued to the end, each catching precisely the same number of
fish. The days were beautifully warm, and rather given to weeping, but
fresh and bracing; whereas the nights were deliciously cool, almost too
cold for Summer, and demanded plenty of warm blankets. Living in the
most primitive but comfortable style, feeding off a rough table, and
often cooking half the dinner ourselves, but with a glorious feeling of
entire independence, the heavens above, the earth beneath, and all
nature round us, we had a splendid time, and many fish came to our net.
Thus the pleasant days flew by; the sport ever honest, manly,
invigorating and exciting, varying in luck, at times abundant in its
yield, and then utterly unproductive--the uncertainty added zest; while
the evenings and hot middays were enlivened with the story, joke or
latest novel. Many an idle hour, when the sun shone too resplendent for
the hope of sport, did we while away, the men seated or stretched at
length in various picturesque attitudes, and one of us reading aloud.
But the time came when this was to end, and on the eleventh day the
edict was promulgated to break up camp and return.
The tent fell and was packed, the pots and pans were huddled together,
our camp stores stowed, and we reëmbarked for the descent of the river.
Keeping rods ready for an occasional cast, we swept along; the water was
high, our men were good boatmen, the canoes were strong, and we rushed
through the foaming torrent at a gallant rate.
At Rocky Bend my friend struck five fine grilse successively, and lost
all but one, much to his chagrin. He laid it to the size of his hooks,
alleging they were too large; but what genius will arise to explain how
it is that salmon break away without any severe strain on, or damage to,
the tackle. Is it a defect in the shape of the hook? If so, should it
bend to one side, or curve in or out at the point? Or is it in the force
of striking, or place where the hook holds? The matter is so complex,
that the most careful investigation has left me even without a theory.
Some of my friends swear by one of the above plans, others by another; I
have tried them all, and still the fish escape as frequently as ever.
As we approached a well-remembered spot where I had taken a fine grilse
in ascending, Abraham slowly said:
“Take care as we come down to this pool, for I am like the man that once
shot a bear at a cleared spot just below, and whenever afterward he came
to the same place, he clambered on the highest stump, and looked around
to see whether there was not another bear. Wherever we took one fish, I
always expect to take another.”
I told him it was somewhat the same with me, but in that instance we
were doomed to disappointment--there was no second bear.
At Sandy Pond we made our camp for the night, as my friend had never
seen a fish killed with the spear, and, although admitting its
unsportsmanlike character, wished to experience how it was done.
When darkness had settled down, our men kindled a flaming fire of pine
knots, in an iron basket attached to a pole that projected from the bow
of the canoe, and seating my friend amidships between them, pushed off.
They pulled against the stream, the bright light bringing out the stones
at the bottom of the water in strong relief, exposing everything within
a radius of twenty feet. Behind it stood the spearsman, erect, his quick
eye glancing in every direction, the firelight falling upon his
reddened visage and illuminating his many graceful attitudes. With rapid
motion he swung the spear from side to side as any passing object
attracted his attention, ready for the death-dealing blow. With perfect
facility he kept command of the boat, shoving her bow from the rocks and
guiding it through the proper channel; occasionally the spear was sent
glancing through the water, and in a moment a grilse brought struggling
to the surface and thrown into the bottom of the canoe, where the fire
rays were reflected from his scales like the liquid gleam of the
diamond.
It was a picturesque sight, the waving flame, the active spearsman, the
graceful canoe, and the intense darkness around; but it was cruel and
barbarous, and my friend desisted before many fish had suffered.
Next day returned us safe and sound to Wilson’s hospitable log mansion,
where a hearty welcome awaited us. Our extra stores were divided among
the men, a farewell spoken, the team once more harnessed, and we set out
to join the stage at Boiestown for Chatham, on the road to the
Nipisiquit.
A strange place is Boiestown; built by an American named Boies, it is a
mere collection of unpainted shanty-like houses but with Yankee
shrewdness, located upon a fine stream of never-failing water, with
excellent mills and water power, it might have been a thriving place had
not Boies, its presiding spirit, met with reverses. The maelstrom of
lumber speculation had ingulfed him, and with him the prosperity of the
town. There was no native capable of filling his place, and the glory of
Boiestown had departed.
The stage was due at six o’clock, but at six o’clock it did not come,
nor at seven, eight, nine nor ten. We told Wilson to return for us in
the morning, and retired to rest in the nearest tavern, leaving word to
be called when it did come.
At midnight there was a pounding at the door announcing the arrival of
the conveyance that was to carry us and our baggage, two heavy trunks,
seventy miles. It was a light one horse-wagon. We went to bed again, and
next morning found the stage-driver still at Boiestown, having turned
out his horse to graze.
Wilson, however, soon arrived, and we started on that dreary road,
following the descent of the Miramichi to its mouth. There is one, and
but one, pretty view in the entire seventy miles, and that is as you
ascend the first mountain beyond Boiestown. Looking back, the peaceful
valley that we had just left, stretching away to our camping-ground, lay
basking in the sunlight. In the distance, scarcely visible among the
trees, were the few houses that compose Campbelltown; nearer was the
straggling village of Boiestown, and at our feet ran the placid river,
leaving broad intervals upon its banks, and meandering between smiling
islands. The hay was ripening in the meadow, the oats were still
luxuriant in their fresh green, the bushes lined the occasional fences
or marked out the narrow swamps, while here and there were dotted the
majestic white pine, the towering spruce, the noble elm or the graceful
willow, and a dead tree now and then stretched its ungainly limbs toward
the clouds.
Beyond, however, we fell into one dull, dreary routine; civilization was
behind us, the few farms once cultivated were falling back into their
savage state, the houses tumbling down, the barns in their last stages
of dilapidation, everywhere windows broken out, doors off their hinges,
huge cracks in roof or walls, told of general decay. The people had
fled, no one knew whither; and of the few that were left, the stupidity,
avarice and extortion were incredible. They impose upon and annoy
travellers and fishermen till they have almost driven them away. The
stages fail to run or to connect as they undertake to do. No one appears
to know their times of starting or arriving. Boats advertise to leave on
days when they never have left, to stop at places that are not laid down
on the map, but are colloquially applied to an entire district; and omit
places where they do stop. No man knows anything except his own
individual business, and but little of that. The inhabitants mainly draw
their support from the river, and yet are busy day and night endeavoring
to ruin it; the nets from opposite shores lap over one another or reach
from bank to bank, and are set week in and week out, while there is a
fish running; the smallest mesh is used, small enough to capture trout
or herring. The few fish that do reach the spawning beds are chased with
the merciless spear without cessation till long after they are worthless
as food. Yet the people think the river has improved because the laws
are partially enforced at its mouth. Netters complain of the spearers,
and the spearers of the netters, but neither do anything but harm. The
upper stream is alive with nets, although netting should be permitted
nowhere above tide water.
The only crops of the region are potatoes, oats and hay; for nine
months there is rigorous winter, and for three months cold weather. The
great productions are black flies, midgets and mosquitoes. The Lord help
such a people, for the people will never help themselves. Let my
blessing remain with the land; I shall never return for it.
The river itself is not only lovely to contemplate but would afford to
reasonable beings abundant support. In May and June the Gaspereau or
alewives, a species of herring, _Alosa Tyrannus_, make their appearance
in myriads, and ascend to the lakes to spawn; in June and July the
beautiful sea trout appear in shoals and urge their course to the
head-waters and the cool brooks; in July and August come the splendid
salmon, struggling against every impediment that the wit of man, or want
of wit, can place in their way, to perpetuate their species for that
foolish man’s support, and build their nests in the broad sandy pools.
The lively, energetic grilse come last, fighting vigorously to reach
their sylvan homes. Not one of all these races is taken fairly or
properly, nor when his destruction will do most good and the least harm.
Having dined at Decantelon’s, we reached Lynch’s by dark, where we
supped and passed the night, and next day, after breakfasting at
Magee’s, arrived at Newcastle by nine in the morning. Seeing a boy, my
friend inquired:
“Boy, when does the stage leave that runs to Newcastle?”
“A’most any time; one has gone, but there will be another going in an
hour or two.”
“Where does it start from? We must inquire for ourselves, I see.”
“Oh, anywhere round the streets; up one street and down another.”
“Now that cannot be,” continued my friend sternly; “it must start from
some place, and we do not wish to miss it.”
“Well, it will be along; it goes all around.”
“It has to cross that ferry, I believe,” said my friend, almost
savagely.
“Yes,” said the boy.
“We will wait there where it cannot miss us.”
“Why, there it comes now; don’t you see it on the other side of the
river?”
Sure enough, there it was; and from that moment it never escaped our
eye. There was a post-office near by.
“Postmaster,” said my friend, “as you must know, on account of your
official position, will you tell me when the Princess Royal leaves
Chatham for Shediac.”
“Oh, yes; every Monday and Friday. It is advertised in the paper.”
“Now there is some satisfaction about this,” and out came his note-book.
“Every Monday and Friday--ah, yes, the paper says---- Why, the paper
says Monday and Thursday!”
“Impossible! So it does; why she never sails on Thursdays. There must be
some mistake.”
“Somewhere no doubt,” said my friend, despondingly, returning the
note-book; nor was he much relieved by being afterwards informed by the
stage-driver that she sailed neither Thursday nor Friday, but only
Monday.
At Chatham, Mrs. Bowser received us hospitably and noisily, and there we
met some good sportsmen and fine fellows. The sportsmen are the salt of
New Brunswick earth; they have not a trait in common with the other
inhabitants, but are jovial, friendly and open-hearted. One cannot know
too many nor see too much of them. We owed them many thoughtful
attentions, which we will repay to them or others of the race of
fishermen, passing on the obligation.
Forty-five more miles of weary road, crossing in its course the
Tabasintac, that splendid trout stream, and we reached Bathurst, where
we found the guides awaiting us at the Wellington House, having received
our telegram, and next day we began “life in the woods” once more.
Our camp was pitched at the Round Rocks, the lowest fishing station on
the Nipisiquit, whither we drove with our luggage in a wagon, and met
the canoes. Our rods were hastily put together, and in Rock Pool, at the
second cast, I took a fine grilse. Others followed, and next day came
the salmon. Splendid fellows just from the sea, their scales resplendent
with the reflected light of their ocean homes; solid, strong and brave,
leaping again and again, madly disdaining restraint, and fighting
fiercely till the last. The water was strong; in some places the rapids
were impassable. Sad to tell, the fish knew it, and alas, too often
darted down them, whisking their tails in joy at their recovered
freedom. Our sport was magnificent.
After fishing the Round Rocks and the Bush Falls, we ascended the river
to the Pabineau Falls, where we paused only to exchange friendly
greetings with two fellow fishermen, and continuing through the dark,
silent waters of the Bittabock, dined at the Middle Landing, where the
stream pours seething in its narrow channel between high rocky banks,
and where it is said to be six fathoms deep. We passed another angler at
the Chain of Rocks, and reached the Grand Falls and pitched our tent on
its precipitous shores by sundown.
Wild indeed is the scenery at the Grand Falls, the highest point the
salmon reach. The falling water, in long ages, has worn away a channel
between high bluffs, and now, in ordinary seasons, pours through a
narrow gorge that once could be leaped across, but which has been
blasted to admit the passage of timber. The sheet of water falls in a
mass of foam some forty feet, the spray rising in volumes, and producing
in the summer’s sun a beautiful mist rainbow. The granite rocks have
been worn in deep holes by revolving bowlders, and in winter the whole
chasm, filled with ice and water, must be grand and impressive in
extreme.
There is a smaller, second fall, which the salmon occasionally try to
leap; but they spawn in the pebbly beds below, the whole course of the
stream, especially at the basin a short distance from the falls.
The principal natural fly of the Nipisiquit is about three-quarters of
an inch long, has a yellow body and orange tip, two short whisks and two
long, yellow antennæ, six thick yellow legs, a large, black head, a
thick yellow body with nine rings, and four reticulated, dull yellowish,
transparent wings. They are not very abundant, but there are many small
nocturnal flies, that will be drawn together with a light in swarms.
It is extremely interesting to stand on the rocks overhanging the river
and watch the salmon, their every motion distinctly visible, and their
numbers readily counted. When one is casting the fly, his companion can
see the fish move to take it, and call out when to strike. Salmon seem
to rise very slowly and deliberately and can be observed of a bright day
together in crowds, holding their own against the current with a
scarcely perceptible effort. Not one in a hundred will notice the fly;
ordinarily nothing but the fins are in motion, but occasionally an
individual will give a flirt and turn up his side, which flashes like
silver through the water.
We fished the Camp, the Falls, the Rock and Cooper’s Pools with great
success; the fish were numerous, fine conditioned, large and strong. We
had many a fierce contest; often was our line run out for seventy yards;
the fish made splendid leaps and vigorous rushes, but we lost very few,
as there was but one bad place. That was below the Falls Pool, where a
stake had caught in the middle of the current; I found its locality by
losing a fine grilse and a casting line.
The days wore on most pleasantly; salmon occupied all our thoughts. The
first thing in the morning we looked for salmon, then we fished for
salmon, then we breakfasted on salmon, and then again fished for them;
then made flies to catch them, next dined on them, again fished for
them, and then supped off them, and lastly dreamed of them. But the
happiest and longest of summer days must end; our time came to return,
and the camp was struck.
The river is quite evenly divided between the various stopping-places,
and it is almost exactly three miles between each. There are six good
fishing places: the Grand Falls, Middle Landing, Bittabock, Pabineau
Falls, Round Rocks and Rough Waters.
We stopped at our original camp, the Round Rocks and there we struck our
last fish. My friend hooked in the middle of the current a noble
specimen, that gave such splendid play that I laid down my rod to
witness the contest. The bright sides of the fish, as he leaped again
and again out of water, proved that he was fresh run and strong, an
impression his fierce rushes confirmed. He was played with great care
and delicacy; but alas! suddenly darted across the current, took a turn
around a rock, and returning passed round another. All hope was given
up, but when the canoe was skillfully pushed across after him, he was
found to be still on and the line uninjured by the smooth rocks. My
friend, greatly rejoiced, had another severe contest, and foiled two
determined efforts at escape down an impassable rapid, and when
compelled to follow him through some very rough water, did it in a
masterly style, standing erect in the canoe, which was ably handled by
the two Chamberlains, and guiding the fish through the safest channel.
Nearly an hour had been expended, and the fish, almost exhausted, made
one last effort to reach the next rapid, and being prevented, came
alongside, feebly turning over and over. My friend unfortunately had put
on a double leader and could not reel up short, so the salmon lay deep
under water, dimly seen, when John attempted to gaff him. At that
instant the fish turned, the gaff slipped, he made a rush into the
current, and one cry from my friend, “There, he’s off,” told the tale.
The line sprung up into the air, we looked at one another in silence;
the occasion was too sad for words. My friend sat down upon the rocks in
despair; I felt for, but had no power to console him. At last, slowly
and sadly, he broke the mournful silence: “Let us go home,” he said; and
we went.
Good bye, lovely Nipisiquit, stream of the beautiful pools, the
fisherman’s elysium; farewell to thy merry, noisy current, thy long
quiet stretches, thy high bluffs, thy wooded and thy rocky shores. Long
may thy music lull the innocent angler into day dreams of happiness.
Long may thy deep holes afford secure havens of safety for the salmon,
where they can bid defiance to the rapacious net and murderous spear.
Long may thy romantic scenery charm the eye and gladden the heart of the
artist and welcome the angler to a happy sylvan home. And often may I
visit thee, beautiful Nipisiquit!
So much attention has been paid during the last few years to the
increase and protection of salmon in Canada and New Brunswick, that the
Nipisiquit, which was once one of the best rivers, has fallen into a
second rank; not that it has deteriorated, but because others have
improved. Privileges are allowed to single rods at so much a day for the
fishing, which is generally hired by the firm I have mentioned in
Bathurst, but before going, the sportsman had better communicate with
the Department at Ottawa, as leases are continually being changed.
CHAPTER VII.
WHITE TROUT OF THE SCOODIAC, OR ST. CROIX.
I am unable to give a scientific description of these beautiful and
delicious fish, and believe they have never been properly described.
They however closely resemble a dwarfed salmon, and have been supposed
to be these fish landlocked, prevented, by a natural or artificial
obstruction, from completing their annual migrations to and from the
sea. The better opinion, however, is that they are a distinct fish, and
the color of their sides naturally suggests the above appellation,
although they have no popular name. The name Scoodic is applied
generally to the St. Croix River, its lakes and tributaries, and in
Maine they are known as the St. Croix Trout, in New Brunswick as the
Scoodic Trout, while Mr. Perley suggests that they may be the Grey
Trout.
They are, however, extremely tame and numerous, take the fly readily,
afford excellent sport, and delicious eating. They weigh from one pound
to four, and may be taken in hundreds. The season commences about the
first of June, and lasts throughout that month, and the best flies are
the gay ones, composed mainly of feathers from the golden pheasant. The
scarlet ibis and Irish lake flies are prime favorites.
The steamer of the International Line, from Boston or Portland,
connects at Eastport with a river boat for Calais, whence there is a
railroad to Lewis’ Island. From Lewis’ Island it is nine miles to the
fishing-ground, six of which are by water and three by land. A man named
Goole will take the baggage over the portage, and the best fishing is
above the Grand Falls, between the first two lakes. Inquiries must be
made at the time about the necessity of carrying the canoe across the
portage, as often no canoe can be obtained at the fishing-ground. Of
course the angler must expect to camp out, and will provide himself
accordingly.
Since the above short article was written, these fish under the name of
land-locked salmon, or Winnonish of the Indians, have received much
attention. Raised artificially in large numbers, they have been
distributed through many waters of the United States, but do not seem to
take well to their new homes. They have been domesticated at the New
York State hatchery, but nowhere can they be said to furnish wild
fishing, except in their original habitat, St. Croix and Sebago lakes
and streams.
CHAPTER VIII.
WHITE-FISH.
_Coregonus Albus--Attihawmeg._--Although included in the salmon family
by having the second dorsal adipose, and the fin-rays soft, this fish
differs totally from either the trout or salmon. It has minute
velvet-like teeth, scarcely perceptible to the touch, except on the
gill-arches, where there is a row of long and slim ones, like bristles;
the scales are large and the body compressed like that of a shad, and it
has been called the Fresh-water Shad. The mouth is very small, utterly
unsuited for seizing the prey on which the trout and salmon feed; the
color of the back is greyish blue, and the sides white.
Fin-rays, D. 13.0; P. 17; V. 12; A. 13; C. 19-6/6, the second dorsal
being adipose.
The proper appellation for this fish is the Indian name, Attihawmeg, and
if sportsmen would in all cases follow the names used by the aborigines
they would show more sense than the common people of our country, who
think every fish with a spiny back fin must be a bass, and every other a
trout. The Attihawmeg abounds in Lake Huron, where it attains a weight
of twelve to fourteen pounds, and is tolerably abundant in Lakes Erie,
Ontario and Michigan. It feeds on mussels and shellfish, or on aquatic
plants, and is usually taken in nets. The general opinion is that it
will take no bait, natural or artificial; but it might be tempted by the
artificial fly, or perhaps the cray-fish. It is the finest fresh-water
fish of America upon the table, having no rival that approaches it in
excellence except the Otsego bass. But being extremely delicate, it
should be eaten immediately on leaving the water, and is never in
condition in the cities. If it has been frozen, as is always the case in
Winter, the Attihawmeg is utterly worthless. It is unsurpassable split
and broiled, very similar in appearance and flavor, only much superior
to the shad. It is not properly a game fish, whatever may be thought of
its delicacy of taste and appearance, but a description of it is
necessary to complete the series and to distinguish it from certain
others.
To take it, however, as the Indians do in the Sault Ste. Marie, with
long-handled scoop-nets, amid the roar and rush of the seething waters
is no mean sport, and requires a readiness of hand, sharpness of eye,
and steadiness of foot possessed by few men. Its artificial culture has
been made a matter of special concern in the States bordering on the
great lakes.
CHAPTER IX.
CISCO.
I record a description of this fish for the purpose of calling to it the
attention of those who have the requisite knowledge to determine what it
is, and beg naturalists, if it is still undescribed, to leave it its own
pretty, original name. It inhabits Lake Ontario, near its outlet into
the St. Lawrence, and is taken in the neighborhood of Cape Vincent. It
is one of the _Coregonus_ group, but neither the White-fish, Attihawmeg,
_Coregonus albus_, nor the Otsego Bass, _Coregonus Otsego_. It may be
related to the _Coregonus clupeiformis_, although differing much from
the meagre description of the latter in the accounts copied one from
another, of Dr. Mitchill, Lesueur, and Dr. De Kay.
The Cisco is not so compressed nor deep as the white-fish; the teeth are
more delicate and velvety, and in the gill arches are a few long,
distinct, slim teeth or bristles. The mouth is smaller than that of the
white-fish, and when open, perfectly square. The scales are similar to
those on the latter, but the tail is so delicate as to make counting the
rays mere guesswork; the point of the tongue is hard, the back colored
green, the sides silver white, while the first ray of the pectoral,
ventral and anal fins is darkish. The first dorsal has ten soft rays,
the second is adipose; the pectoral has fourteen soft rays, the ventral
eleven, the anal twelve, and the caudal, as well as I could count them,
fourteen. It is a very beautiful and delicate fish, more so even than
the white-fish.
The cisco is taken at Cape Vincent, with the eel-fly baited on a small
hook and dibbled along the top of the water, and is said not to notice
any artificial fly. I unfortunately had no chance to try, though I saw
them rising and taking the natural fly readily. They do not rise with
the rush of a salmon or trout, never springing out of water, and simply
show their heads as they seize their prey. The eel-fly is a fat and
sluggish fly, and it may be that the fish rising slowly, as they
naturally do, would discover the deception even if an imitation eel-fly
were offered to them. This fly, as I have elsewhere observed, is
similar, both in appearance and habits, to the famous European May-fly.
The fish known as the lake herring, _salmo clupeiformis_, although very
similar in appearance, has certain distinctive characteristics; for
instance, there are minute teeth on the tongue, and the fin-rays, as I
make them, are--
D. 12; P. 16; V. 11; A. 11; C. 19-5/5; B. 9.
According to Lesueur--
D. 12; P. 16; V. 12; A. 14; C. 19-5/5.
In the lake herring I also found the first ray of the dorsal the
longest, although Lesueur says it is simple and short; the tail is
deeply forked. The dorsal terminates nearly opposite the ventrals, and
the second dorsal is opposite the centre of the anal.
CHAPTER X.
OTSEGO BASS.
_Coregonus Otsego._--This fish must be carefully distinguished from the
Oswego Bass, there being no resemblance except in the stupidity of
confounding by name one of the perch family, to which the latter
belongs, with one of the salmon family, to which this belongs. The
Otsego Bass is closely allied to the white-fish, but has numerous dusky
longitudinal lines on the sides. Its mouth and scales are small, and it
appears to have no teeth except the bristles on the gill-arches. The
lateral line is nearly straight, and the tail is deeply forked. The back
is a rich blue, fading into green, the sides brilliant with mother of
pearl, and the belly gleaming like molten silver. The rays are as
follows:
Br. 9; D. 13; P. 17; V. 11; A. 11; C. 22.
The second back fin, as in all the salmon tribe, is adipose and rayless.
These fish have as yet only been found in Otsego Lake, where they are
rapidly diminishing in size and numbers. They are not known to take any
bait, and are presumed to feed on aquatic vegetation. Early in spring
they seek the shallow water for a few days, when they are taken in nets;
but shortly retiring to the deepest water, they remain till Autumn, when
they again seek the shores to spawn. They never exceed four pounds, and
rarely two, and though undesirable on table, are not a sportsman’s fish,
and have been described only that they may be distinguished from other
species.
The general opinion now is that the Otsego bass is the white-fish,
improved by purity of water. To test this, large numbers of the latter
have been deposited in Otsego Lake under the direction of certain public
spirited citizens.
CHAPTER XI.
THE BLUE-FISH.
_Temnodon Saltator--Scomber Plumbeus_ (Mitchill)--_Horse
Mackerel--Green-fish of Virginia--Skipjack of South Carolina_.
This fish belongs to the mackerel family; it has projecting teeth in the
fore part of the jaws, and velvety teeth on the roof of the mouth and
tongue. The first dorsal lies in a furrow, and there are two minute
spines concealed under the skin before the anal. The scales extend over
the head, gill-covers and high on the fins; the back is bluish-green,
and the sides and abdomen lighter; the pectorals, second dorsal and tail
are greenish-brown, while the ventrals and anal are white, tinged with
blue. The gill-cover has two indistinct flat points. The fin-rays are as
follows, the spines being distinguished from the soft rays.
D. 7.1.25; P. 17; V. 1.5; A. 1.27; C. 19-3/2
These fish furnish one of the most remarkable instances of the
appearance and disappearance of species on our coast. As in our day,
with the Spanish mackerel, that darling of the gourmand, so in former
times, the blue-fish appeared suddenly. He was first seen on the coast
of Massachusetts in 1764, and then not again till 1792; and it is only
since the year 1830 that he has been abundant. He seems to have
superseded another and larger fish of the same name, and as his numbers
augment, those of the weak-fish, _otolithus regatis_, diminish. The
blue-fish has singular vagaries, sometimes crowding every inlet in
swarms, and then deserting us altogether, visiting in one season one
locality and in the next another, but ordinarily frequenting our entire
coast north to Massachusetts.
They afford excellent sport on a rod and line, being among the strongest
and boldest of their kind, taking the fly readily, and making fierce and
well-sustained rushes; but from the localities they usually frequent,
they are mostly taken with a hand-line from a sailboat. An artificial
squid of bone, ivory or lead, is trailed along at the end of forty yards
of stout line, from a boat dancing merrily over the waves under the
influence of a fresh mackerel breeze. The boatman’s business is to watch
for a shoal, which can be seen by their breaking, and when he has found
it, by repeated tacks to keep the boat in or near it; the fisherman’s
duty is to haul in steadily and regularly immediately on feeling a bite,
and to get out his line again as soon as possible. The fish dart
forward, and throwing themselves out of water, turn a complete
somersault, when, if the line is not taught, they will throw the hook
out of their mouths. The dashing of the waves and flying of the spray,
the rapid exhilarating motion of the vessel, the fresh sea-breeze, the
rapid biting and fine play of the fish, make a day pass pleasantly if
they do not afford scientific sport.
Blue-fish attain a weight of thirty pounds, and the largest being
usually taken outside the bars, beyond the breakers, are a source of
much amusement to our yachtsmen; but the arms of the fisherman soon
weary, and their hands, unless protected by leather gloves, are often
seriously lacerated. The fishing can hardly be said to begin till July,
and continues till late in the Autumn; the smaller fish are taken early.
If cooked when just out of their native element, these fish are
excellent, but they soon lose their flavor. They should be broiled, or
split and nailed on a shingle and roasted quickly before a hot fire.
Undoubtedly they could be taken with the trolling spoon, and a stout
leader of double gut running on swivel traces attached to a dark
hand-line would add greatly to the success. In fact, like all other
fish, at times they are shy and must be fished for with fine tackle, and
then the rod and line come into play. In fishing with a rod from a
sailboat, the moment a fish is struck the sheet is eased off, the boat
run up into the wind, and the fish killed at leisure; if the boat were
kept in motion, the strain would be too great for the rod and reel.
One of the favorite haunts of blue-fish, although they frequent the
entire length and breadth of the Great South Bay of Long Island, is Fire
Island Inlet; and there, of a bright summer day, may be seen congregated
the white sails of fifty boats tossing about in the roll of the
breakers, clustering together as the shoals collect, or scattering far
out to sea in the hopes of better luck. There, when the wind blows, they
may be seen under double reef, plunging along, throwing the spray from
their bows, or, if a milder day, under full sail, generally a single
one, sweeping over the quiet waters. Moderate weather is the best, and
it is no use fishing unless the fish are on, which means that their
visits are variable. At midday, when they generally cease biting, the
adventurous fisherman may land on Raccoon Beach, immortalized by the
genial wit of J. Cypress, jr., and either cook his fish by a fire built
from the waifs of the sea, which I decidedly recommend, or get a
fashionable dinner from Dominy or “t’other man” that keeps a hotel
there.[14] At this time it will be found, and I note the fact for the
benefit of future generations, that a little liquor containing condensed
carbonic acid gas and vulgarly called champagne, with water reduced to
the temperature of freezing and commonly called ice, will be pleasing to
the palate and beneficial to the inner man. In explanation of this
episode, I may say I have just been there.
CHAPTER XII.
SNAPPING MACKEREL.
_Temnodon Saltator._--One of the gayest, merriest, liveliest, little
fish that chases and devours those smaller than himself, and is chased
and devoured by such as are larger, is the Snapping Mackerel, the young
of the previous species, but individualized from the voracity with which
he snaps at the live or dead bait. He is a beautiful, silver-sided
little fellow, weighing from an ounce to half a pound, and makes his
appearance in immense numbers along our coast in the latter part of
September or fore part of October.
“Whence he comes,
Whither he goes,
Nobody cares
And nobody knows.”
He must have just arrived, however, from the parents’ spawning ground,
his diminutive size proving that he has not been long out of the shell.
He roams about, at first in small numbers, but soon increasing to
multitudes, and gives active chase to the minnow and spearing, that may
be seen momentarily springing out of water in their frantic efforts to
escape his charges. He lurks in the foaming water of a mill-tail or
sluiceway, or in the eddying current of the receding tide, watching for
his prey as they swim or are drifted along unsuspiciously. He makes one
dash, a dozen startled spearing leap into the air, and swim for dear
life; but the victim is generally carried off, a dainty and epicurean
meal.
Spearing invariably swim near the surface; they haunt the gates of
tide-mills when the tide is rising, and are drifted in with the current
when the gates open before the advancing waters. The snappers take the
opportunity, not merely to plunge among the shoals before the gates
lift, but afterward, when the spearing, who are helpless in a strong
current, are swept along, to pounce upon them.
Of course in such places they can be captured with most success. When
they first make their appearance, not longer than your forefinger, but
tender and delicate beyond belief, they may be found at low water in the
rivulets of white froth that run bubbling from holes and leaks in the
mill-gates. The best mode of taking them at this time, for they are
small and fastidious, is with a salmon-rod and a tiny spearing on a
Limerick hook; by making casts and drawing the bait along the surface of
the water and through the frothy eddies, the young innocents are
deceived, and thinking to prey upon their weaker brethren, become
themselves a palatable viand for larger creatures. They break like
trout, without throwing themselves out of water, but with a noisy snap,
and if they miss the bait at first, will follow it resolutely. It is no
mean sport to stand upon the old worm-eaten, weather-stained bridge, and
wield the long rod, playing your allurement over the water to the music
of the rushing current and the steady clack of the mill-wheel, and see
one after another of the green-backed, silvery snappers dart from under
the accumulated froth, chase and swallow your bait, and no slight
satisfaction to observe the increasing number in your basket, and think
of how your friends will enjoy their supper that night.
There is one singular fact to be observed, that whereas blue-fish
invariably take the invitation squid, or artificial fly, with voracity,
the snapping mackerel, except in the South Bay of Long Island, can
rarely be tempted by it. In Long Island Sound I have failed with the fly
and the spoon entirely, and have found the gutta percha minnow to work
only passably, whereas in the South Bay they are taken readily with a
leaden squid, of a peculiar shape, run on a large hook and polished
bright.
The spearing is their favorite food, but the extreme sensitiveness of
that remarkable little fish, that renders keeping him alive impossible,
injures the attractiveness of the bait. As has been elsewhere observed,
when small fish are used, it is desirable to keep them alive if
possible, and the snappers will often give the preference to a lively
killey, that by his efforts to escape incites the eagerness of their
pursuit, over a dead spearing, that by his peculiar manner of resting in
the water arouses their suspicions.
As the season advances, the fish are found in all rapid currents of the
salt water, and the barred killey is by far the most killing bait. The
best way of rigging your tackle is to have a small float and light
swivel sinker, below which there is a short leader of gut. The latter is
fastened to the middle of a piece of whalebone or wire about two inches
long, to each end of which the hook, dressed on gut, is attached. As
the teeth of these voracious fish are sharp, and after being hooked they
snap continually, the silk whipping of the hook, as well as the gut
itself, is soon bitten through. Either a small quill may be slipped down
over the hook before it is attached, and into this the teeth sink
without damage, or care must be taken to put a couple of half hitches
with the snell over the shank, as the whipping wears out.
A light rod and reel are necessary for this sport, and there is the same
skill and excitement in the repeated casts that lend to striped bass
fishing one of its peculiar charms. The morning hours, the last of the
ebb and first of the flood, are the most propitious times; but as the
Fall advances, any hour, tide or place will furnish sport in abundance.
I was once fishing with a friend whose experience is greater with the
pencil than the rod, on one of those glorious evenings of what might be
properly styled in our country “fiery brown October,” and our success
made us unmindful of the fleeting hours that had bid the sun farewell
and welcomed the moon from her bed. Cramped as we had been in a
cockle-shell of a boat, we had taken one of the thwarts and the oars,
and placing them across the gunwale, had made two high but dangerous
seats. The boat was extremely unsteady, and many and solemn had been my
unheeded warnings to move as little as possible, and to exercise care in
whatever motions were unavoidably necessary. The fish were out in force,
and seized our bait frantically the instant it touched waves, over which
the moonlight glanced in tiny ripples. A northeaster had been blowing,
but, dying away, left only a long, heaving swell, that was broken by
neighboring projecting rocks, and in no wise added to the steadiness of
the boat. Our eagerness increased with the increasing darkness, and when
unable longer to see our floats, we cast out and reeled in, finding
generally a worthy reward for our pains. The fun grew fast and faster;
at one particular place we were always sure of a fish. To reach it was a
long cast, and my friend, in an effort to excel himself, leaned back for
a vigorous throw, lost his balance, and toppled overboard. His weight,
as he went on one side, careened the boat, threw me down to leeward, and
let the water pour in over the gunwale in barrels. Down almost under
water I saw the other gunwale turned up and nearly over me, when my
friend, falling headlong out, gave the boat a lift, of which I took
advantage by getting back amidships pretty well ducked, but not yet cast
away. The water was nearly up to the seats, but by careful balancing, I
could keep her afloat. Imagine my horror when my friend reappeared from
the oozy depths to which he had descended, and commenced madly trying to
clamber over the side. I begged and besought him to think of what he was
doing; that I was still partially dry; that my watch was a patent lever;
that I had a family of small children; and that the boat would never, in
her present state, hold us both. Reluctantly he listened to reason, and
allowed me to bail her out with a bucket we had provided to carry our
fish. As I threw out the water I could just see with deep regret, in the
moonlight, the sparkle of fish after fish that I was unavoidably
throwing away, and that I hoped would have served so different a
purpose. She was finally freed of water; hats, oars and rod were picked
up, the latter by means of the float that was calmly fishing all by
itself; my friend, who had swam to and was shivering on a neighboring
rock, was taken aboard, and we returned, solemn and sad, my friend very
cold and myself greatly disgusted.
In fishing, therefore, for snappers, it is better not to fall overboard;
but if, by your awkwardness of doing so, you half fill the boat, never
try to climb in over the side, but sacrifice yourself bravely. We were
using on this occasion a bait that, late in the season, is often more
successful than any other--a part of the fish himself. This, in the
early fishing, they will not touch; but in cold weather, frequently
prefer.
It is a singular fact, that although blue-fish have always abounded in
the Great South Bay, snapping mackerel were unknown there till lately;
whereas, while the latter have been abundant in Long Island Sound from
time immemorial, the former have never been taken there to any great
extent.
[Illustration: _Out of Date_
_Squib for Snappers_
_For Snappers_]
CHAPTER XIII.
THE COMMON CARP.
_Cyprinus Carpio._--This, as well as the goldfish, _Cyprinus auratus_,
is not a native of our country, but has been introduced from Europe, and
naturalists have supposed that there is no native carp of any size in
this country. I have seen a fish called the Western Carp, which,
although I had no chance to more than sketch its head, was certainly a
true carp, and of four or five pounds weight. It had large scales, and
all the fin-rays soft, except the first anal, which was robust.
The common carp, which has increased with amazing rapidity till it is
found everywhere in the Hudson River, has a small mouth, fleshy lips
without teeth, large scales, three branchial rays and teeth on the
pharyngeals; has the first ray of the dorsal and anal fin serrated
behind, has two barbels at the angle of the mouth, and a smaller one
above on each side, small eyes, large nostrils, a high back and
radiating striæ on the gill-cover. The color is a golden olive, lighter
underneath.
These delicate fish, having become acclimated, and finding the Hudson
River suitable to their wants, are increasing rapidly in size and
numbers; but none that I have seen equal the western carp or are
properly game fish.
CHAPTER XIV.
MASCALLONGE.
_Esox
Estor--Masqueallongé--Muskellunge--Muscalinga--Masquinongy--Maskinonge--Muscanonga._
The sides of the body are marked with numerous rounded, distinct greyish
spots. Three bands of card-like teeth are situated on the roof of the
mouth, on the palatines and vomer, converging to a point toward the
snout. There are long, sharp, distinct teeth along the edges of the
upper and lower jaw, and continued to the extremity of the latter,
although some authorities assert the contrary. The gill-arches are also
covered with teeth. Mascallonge reach a length of about six feet and a
weight of seventy pounds, and the comparative length of the head with
the whole fish is as one to four. The fin-rays are as follows:
Branchial or gill-rays 20; Dorsal 18; Pectoral 16; Ventral 11; Anal 17;
Caudal 24; according to my best computation.
Br. 18; D. 21; P. 13; V. 11; A. 21; C. 19-7/7.--_Dr. De Kay._
D. 21; P. 14; V. 11; A. 17; C. 26.--_Dr. Mitchill._
D. 22; P. 18; V. 13; A. 20; C. 26.--_Prof. Agassiz._
The lateral line is not continuous, the under jaw is more elongated than
that of the northern pickerel and some fish have on their sides dark
spots on a light greyish ground.
The name of this fish is derived from _Masque allongé_, long snout,
which is a translation from the Canadian Indian dialect, of
_Masca-nonga_, words which have the same signification; and from
corruptions of these two designations arise our numerous names. I took
great pains to ascertain precisely how the Canadian boatmen, who are a
cross of the Indian and Frenchman, pronounced this name, although, in
their French _patois_, he is ordinarily called _Brochat_, and the best
my ears could make of it was _Mas-_ or _Muscallung_, the latter syllable
being guttural. But as the most sonorous, expressive and appropriate
name is Mascallonge, it is desirable that all sportsmen should employ
it.
There is a dispute as to the size and weight that these fish attain, and
while some writers claim for them a fabulous size, others entirely
underrate them. Mr. S. D. Johnston, the proprietor of the Walton House,
at Clayton, a son of Mr. Johnston, who was a prominent man in the
Canadian rebellion, and for many years forced to hide among the Thousand
Isles and live by his hook and spear, said that the largest fish he ever
saw was taken by his father, who, in one night, speared two Mascallonge
weighing respectively sixty-three and forty-two pounds. There is plenty
of authority to prove that there was taken near Clayton, in the year
1859, a mascallonge that measured five feet seven inches in length, and
weighed fifty-one and three-quarter pounds, that it was poor and thin,
and in good condition would probably have weighed over sixty pounds. One
fisherman caught in a single year twelve mascallonge, ranging from
twenty-one to forty-four pounds. Larger fish and far greater numbers may
perhaps be taken in wilder waters, and, indeed, in some of the lakes in
the remote parts of Canada these fish are innumerable.
Their length, proportionally to their weight, is, in consequence of
their peculiar shape, excessive; a fish of twenty-five pounds’ weight
will measure forty-six inches in length by six in depth, and a fish of
seventy pounds it is presumed would be over six feet in length. Although
this is not quite equal to the great pike of Pliny, that weighed a
thousand pounds, and was drawn out by a pair of oxen, and caught on a
hook attached to an ox chain, it must be regarded by the most fastidious
as respectable for the present degenerate days. If the accounts we
receive are reliable, the pike of Europe, of which the old song
erroneously says:
“Turkeys, carps, hoppes, piccarel and beer
Came into England all in one year,”
vastly surpass ours in size, a fish being taken in a pond near Stockholm
with a brass ring round his neck, having an inscription to the effect
that he had been put into the pond by the hands of Frederick the Second
in 1230, or 267 years before. He weighed 350 pounds, and measured
fifteen feet, and his skeleton was a long time preserved at Manheim. The
ring was arranged with springs so as to enlarge as he grew. The Shannon
is said to have produced a pike of ninety-two pounds, and Lock Spey one
of one hundred and forty-six; but, when reading of these accounts, I
feel like the Yankee, who, when boasting of his great country, and
especially its great cataract, was somewhat taken aback by being told
his land produced no volcanoes, nothing to equal Vesuvius or Etna, but
who, after thinking a moment, replied: “That was true those were big
fires, but he guessed Niagara had water enough to put them all out.” So
I think our mascallonge could eat up the biggest pike Europe can
produce; and it will be a pity if, when our country is as old as Europe,
we cannot tell as extensive stories.[15]
CHAPTER XV.
PICKEREL.
In some remarkable and incomprehensible manner the good old name of Pike
has fallen into disuse, and is now applied in this country to a fish
that is not a pike at all, but a perch, _Lucio perca_, the Pike Perch,
Big-eyed Pike, or Glass Eye of the Lakes; while the name Pickerel, which
is merely the diminutive of Pike, is appropriated to the most gigantic
and ferocious monsters of the deep. There is no fish whose appearance is
more appalling, and whose appetite is more ravenous than the Great
Northern Pickerel, which is alleged to attain a weight of twenty pounds,
and which, in its fury, will pounce upon and swallow almost any small
moving object. Nor does it much surpass the common pickerel of our
ponds, which has very similar habits, and sometimes weighs as high as
ten pounds.
The pickerel family, like most of the fish of America, have never been
properly classified by the scientific, nor named by the vulgar. In fact,
they, with the exception of the mascallonge, appear to have no specific
names in common parlance, while naturalists have vague or no
acquaintance with their peculiarities. Sportsmen and others speak of
catching pickerel, whether it be in the St. Lawrence, Great Northern
Pickerel, which seem to
[Illustration: NORTHERN PICKEREL--_Esox lucioides_.]
[Illustration: THE PICKEREL--_Esox reticulatus_.]
have had no scientific designation till named by Agassiz _Esox
Lucioides_ or on Long Island, _Esox Fasciatus_, or on our principal
inland waters, _Esox Reticulatus_, or in some of the lakes of the
Eastern States, where a fish is caught, of which Dr. De Kay, in his
“Natural History of New York,” doubts the existence, and which Dr.
Mitchill has dubbed the Federation Pike, _Esox Tredecemradiatus_. In
truth, the distinction between the Mascallonge and the Great Northern
Pickerel is scarcely visible even to the eye of science, and to the
unlearned is marked only by a slight difference in the shape of the head
and the coloring of the sides. The light tint is yellow in the pickerel
and white in the mascallonge, while in the latter at times the sides
have dark spots on a white ground instead of the dark network of the
pickerel. It has even been doubted whether these fish are not identical,
and the differences of size and color produced by local habits; but the
views of all practical fishermen lean the other way, and they can at
once distinguish the smallest mascallonge from the largest pickerel,
although they are unable to point out the precise distinctive
characteristics; while scientific men do make out that there is a
difference in the number of the fin-rays. For the latter, however,
although I have given the most careful attention that could be expected
from an amateur, my enumeration differs from that of all others as they
differ among themselves. My computation of the fin-rays gave--
Dorsal 18; Pectoral 16; Ventral 11; Anal 17; Caudal 24.
While according to Dr. Mitchill they were respectively, D. 21; P. 14;
V. 11; A. 17; C. 26.
And according to Dr. De Kay--
D. 21; P. 13; V. 11; A. 21; C. 19-7/7.
And according to Professor Agassiz--
D. 22; P. 18; V. 13; A. 20; C. 26.
This, goes to show that either it is very difficult to count the
fin-rays, or that they differ; to the latter of which suppositions my
belief inclines, as I think the older the fish the more fin-rays are
formed, or so hardened as to be perceptible.
The habits of this class of fish are as similar as their appearance, and
whether you capture a tiny pickerel with your fly in some shallow Long
Island water, or entrap the huge mascallonge with a treble hook half
concealed beneath red flannel and shining tin, they rush with the same
eagerness and grasp with the same determination. I amused myself one
evening on Long Island in casting over a newly-made shallow pond with my
ordinary trout cast of flies, and seeing the ferocity with which
pickerel, varying from four to nine inches in length, would dart upon
their anticipated prey.
All pickerel inhabit sluggish water, and abound among the long, grassy
pickerel weed that thrives upon a muddy bottom. The St. Lawrence, where
it winds amid the beautiful Thousand Isles and forms innumerable deep
and quiet bays, is their favorite home. The water, flowing from the
immense lakes and holding suspended the seeds of aquatic plants, is
favorable to the growth of the pickerel weed, and is in every way
suitable to the fish themselves. The latter, however, have great power,
and can unquestionably stem a strong current, for no doubt they ascend
the rapids of that mighty river, being found in the eddies; but they
prefer quiet water, where they can lurk among the weeds, watching
stealthily for their prey, or bask near the surface in the warm summer
sun. Both mascallonge and pickerel abound in the innumerable lakes of
Lower Canada, and are so abundant in addition to being almost tasteless,
as to be unsalable for food.
In other waters pickerel are found in the summer months among the
lily-pads, often in water scarcely deep enough to cover their backs. The
federation pike I have never taken, except in some of the remote ponds
of the wild woods of Cape Cod, near Sandwich and Wareham, especially in
the Little Herring Pond. And although at the time I had no knowledge of
the scientific distinctions of fish, I at once recognized the
description which I saw for the first time afterward, but had often
sought in vain among our works on ichthyology. All the pickerel family
are readily distinguishable by their having but one dorsal, and that
opposite the anal fin and near the tail, and the sportsman acquainted
with one will readily recognize all the tribe.
There are many ways of capturing this fish, and he is not the least
particular if he is offered anything that has the semblance of food. He
may be trolled for with dead bait, generally a minnow, or better, a
yellow perch, on a gang of hooks, or fished for with a live bait and a
float, and he will readily take a frog, provided the latter shall not,
as described in the “Angler’s Miseries,” have the intelligence to creep
out upon a stone and watch the fisherman, while the latter watches his
float; but the true way in open water is to fish for him with a spoon.
The last is objected to as being too destructive; but as it is clean,
requires no bait, and is little trouble, and as the fish are utterly
worthless either for sport or the table, the sooner they are destroyed
and replaced by nobler substitutes the better.
Among the water-lilies the only mode is to use a long, stiff rod and
short line, loaded with one buck-shot about a foot from the hook, and
baited either with a minnow, the belly of a yellow perch, or better than
all, a slip of the skin of pork cut into something resembling a small
fish. The latter never wears out, and can hardly be torn off, while it
often is preferred to more natural food. The bait is dropped into the
opening among the lily-pads, and sinking rapidly, by the weight of the
shot, toward the bottom, is started up again by a twitch of the rod, and
goes bobbing up and down till the pickerel, rendered frantic by such an
absurd performance, can stand it no longer, and with one furious rush
determines to end the gyrations of such a silly creature. Never wait for
pickerel to gorge the bait, discard such old fogy notions, and by the
aid of a strong rod and line, pull him out at once. At least one-half
the time fish eject the bait instead of swallowing it, and no one who
has ever eaten pork can question their taste. Waiting five or ten
minutes, or till they make two or three runs, will not do in our rapid
country. I have seen fish that were corpulent with over-feeding, and
surrounded by their favorite food, young herring, taken by a piece of
themselves being spun in this manner, when they would touch no other
bait.
But the most wonderful mode of all is that practised in the St.
Lawrence, and generally among the larger waters of Canada and the
northern States. The fisherman places himself in the stern of a light
canoe-shaped boat, with his face forward, the oarsman sits near the
bows, of course facing aft; on each side of the fisherman are pegs like
row-locks, or grooves, in the gunwale, with corresponding round holes in
the stretchers on the opposite sides; two short, stiff rods are laid
across the boat, projecting on each side like wings, kept in their
places by the pegs, and their buts supported by the holes. A long line
is let out from each rod, say forty yards, armed with a spoon bait;
while the fisherman holds an ordinary trolling-line in his hand, and is
thus rowed about till either he, or more frequently his oarsman,
perceives from the bending of the rod that he has a bite, or he feels a
dead drag on his hand-line. If it falls to the share of the rod, he
takes the latter up, ends it round till he can reach the line, when he
pulls the fish in by hand. If he uses a reel, it is a good plan to take
one or two turns of the line round it, so that it will just render. By
so doing he might save the rod from breaking, which would be apt to
happen with a heavy fish. Mascallonge invariably stop perfectly still
when struck.
In landing a fish by hand, which is always the preferable mode, the reel
only being used for an emergency, hold the line very lightly between
your fingers and give to every jerk or rush. Innumerable large fish are
lost by an endeavor to pull them in by force, and I have seen men, with
their hands cut by the line, complaining that they had lost a
mascallonge of forty pounds. Pickerel never make many nor
long-sustained rushes, but they give powerful jerks and flounces that,
if resisted, will tear out or break any hook; otherwise, they can
ordinarily be drawn through, or more properly over, the water like a wet
rag. The person who pulls them in as though it was a question of
strength between him and the fish, deserves to lose them and have his
fingers cut besides. The moment, however, the fish is at the side of the
skiff, he should be either gaffed or lifted over the gunwale at once, as
more are lost then than at any other time. Their jaws are mere skin and
bone, the skin tearing away at once, and the bone forming no substance
in which the hook can imbed itself, the latter sometimes slips out or
more frequently is broken off. If you value your fingers, never put them
in a pickerel’s mouth or gills, which are armed with innumerable sharp
and even venomous teeth. The best weather for trolling is a light,
southwesterly breeze, and in large and deep waters a bright sky; in a
heavy wind, it is impossible to manage the boat.
The hook should always be on wire or gimp, the former preferable as the
latter is so rarely what it professes to be, and of course should be
attached to the line by not less than two swivels. The best spoon is the
so-called Buel’s patent, with three hooks, either in one piece, or
soldered firmly together, and a small elliptical piece of tin, copper or
brass, made to revolve round them by means of a shoulder on the shank.
This may be tin on one side and red on the other, or copper and brass,
or copper or brass alone, to suit the angler’s fancy, and the shank of
the hooks is wound with scarlet flannel, or covered with the ibis
feather, or left uncovered, as experience shall dictate. Bright spoons
are preferable on dark days, and for mascallonge the oldest and most
successful fishermen use no feathers or flannel. Avoid purchasing any
spoon with small, dangling hooks, or with more than three or less than
two, or with any fastening of any kind except wire or gimp. Nothing else
will for a moment stand the terrible teeth of these ferocious monsters.
I once had an expensive imitation pearl fish, that was fastened with
thin brass wire, bitten off by the first pickerel that touched it. If
you use a reel, you will of course use your ordinary bass line; if not,
purchase a common stout hand-line, and troll with from forty to fifty
yards out. Your trolling-rod must be short, stiff and strong, not over
ten feet long, and can be readily made by adding a stout top to your but
and second joint; while, for weed fishing, you must have a long, stiff
rod, and when the fish are heavy and tangle themselves in the weeds,
which their first rush will often do, you must reach your line and draw
them out by hand; by taking hold of the wire or gimp, you can readily
land a ten-pound fish.
These fish, both pickerel and mascallonge, can be captured in immense
numbers in the St. Lawrence, at Cape Vincent, Clayton, Alexandria Bay
and many other places; in Lake Champlain, near Rouse’s Point; and in all
the lakes of Canada; but they are dull sport in the catching and poor
food in the eating. Believe no one who boasts of the fine flavor of the
mascallonge, cook him as you will, he is nothing but a dirty, flabby,
tasteless pickerel. And as for the sport, carry a blanket with you,
take a turn with the hand-line round your leg, and stretching yourselves
as best you may in the bottom of the boat, sleep comfortably till either
a call from your oarsman or a tug on your leg rouses you to the dreary
work of pulling in a worthless, unresisting log. When you strike and
lose one fish, remain rowing round and round; if he is not much hurt, he
will bite again, and where there is one there are more; remain at that
spot till, by passing over the ground once or twice without a strike,
you are thoroughly satisfied you have exhausted the supply. There is
sometimes great beauty of scenery, and if your guide has anything to
say, which he rarely has, you can, as you should be able ever to do in
the open air, enjoy yourself.
The mode of fishing among the pond lilies that I have described is much
more exciting, requiring continued activity, some skill and no little
judgment, while there is greater risk of losing your prey. To avoid the
latter casualty, if the fish weigh not over four pounds, lift him out at
once, and proceed in the same way with larger fish to the extent your
rod will stand. As for snap-fishing, that is, using a hook so
constructed as to spring open or shut the moment it feels the bite, and
thus grasping the fish or imbedding an extra hook in his jaws, I have
only tried it sufficiently to be disgusted with it, although probably it
may work well in open water. If, however, it touches a weed, it will be
sprung, and then you cannot catch a fish at all till it is reset. It was
invented to avoid the hook’s coming out of the pickerel’s mouth, which,
from the nature of the latter, it is apt to do, a difficulty which old,
slow, poky, English puntfishers endeavor to remedy by allowing the pike
or jack, as they call him, to gorge the bait. A pickerel, like a trout,
rushes up, strikes his prey, and immediately returns with it to his
haunt; he then ends it round, having generally struck it crosswise, and
swallows it. This he takes much longer to do than a trout, and the
English works on fishing direct you to wait five minutes or till he runs
again, and then, by striking smartly, you can fix the hook into his
gills or stomach, from which nothing but the knife will remove it. The
disadvantage, however, is that the pickerel often eject instead of
gorging the bait, and when the fisherman, having impatiently awaited his
five minutes, comes to strike, he strikes naught but the thin water or
the stem of a water lily. After a few such disgusting results, he will
probably determine, as the writer has, to strike at once, unless, by one
of those exceptional cases to all good rules, some peculiar difficulty
forces him to proceed otherwise. The word spoon, that has been so
frequently used, is derived from the use originally of the bowl of a
pewter table-spoon, into one end of which was fastened three hooks, and
into the other a swivel attached to the line, and which, by playing and
flashing through the water, attracted the fish; the old-fashioned spoon
is now out of use, and entirely superseded by Buel’s patent. Pickerel,
especially the smaller varieties, will take a fly, but not very readily;
and this can hardly be said to be an established mode of fishing for
them.
There is another style of pickerel fishing which is amusing, to say the
least of it, and is practised extensively throughout the State of New
York. You take a small piece of flat board about nine inches across,
and pass a stick through a hole bored in the centre so as to project
above and below it; the lower end is then loaded, and to the upper is
attached a line of some twenty or thirty feet, that is baited with
either a live or dead minnow. The line is coiled on one side of the
wood, and leaving sufficient end for the bait to sink to a proper depth
is fastened slightly in a slit cut in the wood like the thread of a
spool. As many as you please to use are then placed in the pond and left
to fish while you row about or otherwise employ yourself. If a pickerel
takes the bait, the line is jerked out of the cleft, and uncoiling,
allows him to carry off and pouch the bait, but when he undertakes to
move away he is hooked by the resistance of the wood against the water.
The motion of the float can be seen from some distance, and it is quite
interesting to chase one after another that go “bobbing around,” as fish
after fish is hooked. A plan somewhat similar to this is described by
Walton and other writers, and it is merely a modification of an old
invention.
The best season for pickerel fishing is after the first of September,
although they are taken at all times, including their spawning seasons
of February, March and April, and are quite good, voracious and abundant
in July and August. The English pike is reported to show an abstinence
from food in Summer that our fish never exhibit, and, indeed, differs
from ours in many particulars, and none more to his credit than his
scarcity. In Summer our fish resort to the shallow water, as they are
also said to do in their spawning season, and at both times they are
shot or speared without mercy. In fact, the quick eye, ready hand and
steady foot required for spearing renders it an exciting and reputable
sport, worthy of, and often unattainable by, the best of us. In Winter,
pickerel seek the warm, deep water, and are caught through a hole in the
ice by a live bait on a hand line. This is said to be very exciting,
provided a rude hut is built over the hole, and a fire made in the hut,
end provided the fisherman, seated in a comfortable chair, provided with
a book, a segar and a glass of hot punch, has an assistant to pull out
the fish. It is alleged that these fish are, “during the height of the
season,” brilliant and beautiful; if that is so with any, except the
Long Island Pickerel and the Federation Pike, the height of the season
must have been too high for me to reach.
The family of the _Esocidæ_ are truly typified by the voracious and
terrible _Esox luceus_, wolf-fish, the true pike, from which they take
their name, and include among their numbers the formidable Gar-pike,
_Esox osseus_ of the Southern waters. Although their flesh is hardly fit
for the table, they are universally abundant, and their capture affords
that kind of pleasure always derived from taking many and large animals
of any description.
The principal species known in this country are:
THE MASCALLONGE, _Esox Ester_.
THE NORTHERN PICKEREL, _Esox Lucioides_, both of which inhabit the great
rivers and lakes of the North.
THE COMMON PICKEREL, _Esox Reticulatus_, of the middle and northern
States.
THE LONG ISLAND PICKEREL, _Esox Fasciatus_.
THE WHITE PICKEREL, _Esox Vittatus_, of the West.
THE BLACK PICKEREL, _Esox Niger_, of Pennsylvania and of Saratoga Lake,
New York, which Dr. De Kay presumes to be only the young of the common
pickerel.
THE FEDERATION PIKE, _Esox Tredecem Radiatus_, of the eastern States.
[Illustration: YELLOW PERCH.--(_Perca flavescens_)]
[Illustration: PIKE-PERCH--THE WALL-EYED PIKE--_Lucio perca_.]
CHAPTER XVI.
THE GREAT NORTHERN PICKEREL.
_Esox Lucioides._--This fish is very similar to the mascallonge, so much
so that it is not mentioned in most of the works on American
Ichthyology, being confounded with the latter. The principal differences
in appearance are, that the snout of the pickerel, the under jaw
especially, is shorter and more obtuse than that of the mascallonge, the
light tint of its sides is yellower, and it never attains over
twenty-five pounds. The markings on the sides are somewhat different,
the light, elongated spots of the pickerel, being occasionally replaced
in the mascallonge by dark spots on a greyish ground, and the fin-rays
are not so numerous.
Dorsal 18; Pectoral 16; Ventral 10; Anal 15 and Caudal 24.
Or, according to Professor Agassiz--
D. 21; P. 16; V. 11; A. 16; C. 17.
The principal color is dark grey, lighter on the sides than on the back.
These fish are caught in all the sluggish waters of the North, and on
the same ground and at the same time with the mascallonge, and coincide
with him entirely in habits and disposition. They exhibit the same
ferocity, are allured by the same baits, entrapped in the same manner,
and, in a culinary point of view are, if possible, inferior.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE COMMON PICKEREL.
_Esox Reticulatus._--These fish, which are sometimes called by the
learned, and none others, Pike, have on their sides a network of dark
lines upon a yellowish ground, and are named by naturalists from this
peculiarity. The lines are sometimes longitudinal, and but little
reticulated. The fin-rays are--
Dorsal 18; Pectoral 16; Ventral 10; Anal 14; Caudal 19-7/7. Or,
according to Agassiz--
D. 20; P. 16; V. 10; A. 20; C. 18.
This fish rarely exceeds ten pounds in weight, although he has been said
to attain fifteen; but in these instances has probably been confounded
with the Northern Pickerel. He abounds all through the northern States,
and is emphatically the _Pickerel_, when the word is used without other
qualification. The darker, more sluggish and weedy the water, the more
he likes it; old roots, decayed trees and a muddy bottom are his
delight, and by his ferocity not a few ponds have been depopulated of
superior fish. Among a certain class of fishermen he is a favorite,
though utterly worthless for the table or as sport, and the little
enterprise our farmers have shown has been in introducing this
despicable fish into good waters, where, in consequence of his rapid
increase and voracious habits, he has soon exterminated all other
varieties. Even excellent trout ponds have been treated in this way.
The largest of these fish within my range of information, are taken in
Long Pond, New Jersey, a large pond, originally a natural lake, and
rendered more extensive by damming. The head-waters are filled with dead
trees, amid the roots of which pickerel hide and thrive. There they are
said to attain ten pounds, and often exceed five. Generally, however,
five is the limit, and many more are taken that weigh not over three.
These fish are not found in the waters of Canada, and are usually
captured with live or dead bait, or a piece of pork, although in
favorable water they would undoubtedly take the spoon, like their
congeners of the north. Their habits are similar to those of the
northern pickerel and mascallonge.
CHAPTER XVIII.
FEDERATION PIKE.
_Esox Tredecem Radiatus._--This fish, simply so called because it has no
name among fishermen and sportsmen, is almost unknown to naturalists.
Dr. De Kay doubts its existence, and it is described alone by Dr.
Mitchill. I take, therefore, much pleasure in adding my testimony, so
far as it goes, to its existence, although after all it may be merely a
northern or common pickerel so altered by a change of food and water as
not to be recognizable. There were a large number taken in the Little
Herring Pond, on Cape Cod near Agawam, and the secret of their existence
being kept for years, we had excellent sport before the natives found it
out, and with their spears and guns, fishing through the ice and killing
them on the spawning-beds put a termination to their existence. A few
may remain, and thus determine the question. “We caught large numbers,
taking them of ten pounds’ weight, and readily killing in a few hours a
hundred and twenty-five pounds. The fish were peculiarly beautiful in
appearance, so much so that I made a rough outline which is now before
me, and marked in the colors for the purpose of painting the picture of
one. I afterward found the undertaking difficult, on account of the
dissimilarities of the common pickerel, which I purchased in market and
endeavored to use as a guide. The water of this pond was clear as
crystal, and communicated with the ocean; it was alive with herring,
perch and other small fish, as thick as the gold leaf in a bottle of
_Eau de vie de Dantsic_, and may have had a great effect upon the
coloring and shape of the fish. At the time I was struck with their
appearance, and examined all the works on ichthyology at my command, but
could find no satisfactory description.
The head was that of the pickerel family; of the teeth and fin-rays I
remember nothing accurately; the back was dark brownish green, growing
greener on the sides, where it was interspersed with numerous lilac
spots or scales, and shading off, as it descended on the sides, into
light green with yellow scales; then into yellow with brilliant silvery
scales, terminated on the belly in the purest white. The dorsal fin and
tail were dark green, the anal burnt sienna, the ventral yellow, with, I
believe, the first ray red, and the pectoral yellow and reddish. The
back of the head was dark green, the gill-covers were partially covered
with scales, the iris was yellow shot with pearl; between the eye and
the nostril there was a spot of lighter green; the snout and tip of the
under jaw were dark green; adjoining on the under jaw was a warm lilac
color, becoming purplish as it advanced toward the gill-cover. The lower
part of the fore gill-cover was of a pearly tint, deepening into purple
as it ascended; the gill-rays were a beautiful warm light mother of
pearl, and behind them was a yellow tint. These colors were all
exquisitely brilliant, and bid defiance to my palette. The sides were
variegated with irregular broken horizontal black lines, extending
nearly to the tail, which was forked. Toward the belly these lines
disappeared; and the scales of the whole body were small and numerous.
The depth was unusually large in proportion to the length, made greater
probably by my drawing the outline round the fish as he lay on his side.
I took three outlines; but the best specimen weighed six pounds and a
half, and was twenty-four and a half inches long to the centre of the
tail, and twenty-three to the root, by five and a half deep, the head
having a length of seven and a half inches.
These fish were not only remarkably beautiful, but were excellent on the
table, and differed utterly in both particulars from all other pickerel.
They were taken in Summer among the water lilies, with the belly of a
yellow perch or a piece of themselves, and surrounded as they were by
the most delicious food, visible to our eyes in unlimited quantities,
were naturally dainty.
The above description accords wonderfully with that of Dr. Mitchill, and
there can be no doubt that the fish are identical, although I did not
count the fin-rays, which Dr. Mitchill gives at--
Br. 13; D. 13; P. 13; V. 9; A. 13; C. 21.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE LONG ISLAND PICKEREL.
_Esox Fasciatus._--This fish has no name whatever in common parlance,
and naturalists have dubbed him Varied Pickerel, Mackerel Pickerel, and
other terms which are unknown except to their authors. He abounds on
Long Island, although he is found elsewhere throughout the State, and
probably the most appropriate name would be Banded Pickerel, as his
scientific appellation justly suggests. Varied pickerel is appropriate
to nothing, and mackerel pike to the _scomber esox_, another fish
altogether. This fish is distinguishable by having dark vertical bands
upon his sides, and being altogether of a darker hue on the back than
any other pickerel, while the pectoral, ventral and anal fins are
lighter colored and sometimes reddish. A dark band passes from the eye
to the angle of the jaw, and the fin-rays are--
D. 22; P. 16; V. 10; A. 18; C. 18. Or, according to Dr. De Kay--
D. 15; P. 15; V. 9; A. 14; C. 19-5/5
This fish never exceeds one pound in weight, and one foot in length; and
although endowed with all the ferocity of his family, does not
apparently injure the trout ponds of Long Island, where he has a local
habitation and a name. Probably he cannot destroy the larger fish, and
the young fry do not live where he resorts. It is not from want of will
but of power that he is harmless, for he will take a small fly with the
same ravenous eagerness that the mascallonge exhibits in seizing the
deadly spoon. He is fat and free from bones, and not a bad pan fish, and
in these particulars, as well as in habits and appearance, he sets his
big brothers a good example.
CHAPTER XX.
THE THOUSAND ISLES.
At the upper edge of the State of New York, where civilization
terminates and Canada begins, a mighty river, the outlet of a hundred
lakes and thousand streams, flows amid innumerable islands in a fierce
current toward the sea. It bears upon its broad bosom in immense rafts
the wealth of the forests of the Northwest. Enormous quantities of
timber, collected from all its tributaries, even from the region around
Lake Superior, are brought in large vessels, mostly three-masted
schooners, to the head-waters of this stream, and there, at Cape Vincent
or its neighborhood, are bound together into rafts, preparatory to
descending the rapids. These rafts cover acres in extent, and sometimes
have as many as fifty shanties built upon them to accommodate one
hundred men for months, or until they shall reach Quebec or Montreal.
Launched upon their journey, they are carried along by the current, and
by sails when the wind is favorable, and even without the latter, moving
as they do by the force of gravity faster than the stream, can be
steered to some extent. Rough oars are fastened on the fore and after
part, by a vigorous use of which the raft can be kept from danger and
retained in the middle of the stream. They press on with resistless
force, sometimes passing entirely over projecting rocks or small
islands, and in one instance carrying off a lighthouse that had been
located near their path. One end often runs far on shore, when the other
swings round and drags it off; vessels of all kinds keep clear of them,
if possible. They are bound together with withes made by twisting
saplings, and so strongly that they rarely give way when rushing over
rocks or descending rapids that are almost cataracts. Sometimes they are
composed of logs, sometimes of rough staves. The latter are bound
together in cribs, and instead of three drams making one crib, as is
common in New York, three cribs make a dram; and the wood measure of the
North may be said to be
1000 Staves make one Crib;
3 Cribs make one Dram;
20 Drams make one Raft.
And no one has any scruples whatever, for the country being poverty
itself, the people are neither elevated nor moral, and eke out a scanty
subsistence by rafting and fishing.
The people use for fishing, boats on the plan of a small whaleboat,
built of thin cedar, and the surprise of my companions upon their first
visit to this desolate region, was by no means small on discovering that
they were expected to fish with three lines at once, holding one in
their hand and having a rod projecting from each side of the boat in
addition. We had arrived the evening before at Clayton, and, like true
knights, finding there was to be a ball given by the natives, had
attended it, and danced till the wee hours, with pretty little
bright-eyed girls, strange dances called by Indian names, among which
the most remarkable was Moneymust. It was in the latter part of July,
and the day after the ball being bright and beautiful, with a
southwesterly breeze, we each selected our boatman--for only one
fisherman can go in each boat--and started for a day’s sport among the
mascallonge and pickerel. We separated at once, some going up-stream,
others across by Powder-horn and Shot-bag Islands, while I kept down
along shore and ran into the bay behind the old mill.
I had on the line of my right-hand rod a Buel’s patent spoon, tin on the
outside and red on the inside, brightened, by being rubbed with pumice
stone, till it shone like burnished silver, and, with red ibis feathers
wound round the treble hook, it glanced and sparkled through the water,
visible at a great distance. On the left-hand rod the spoon was copper
on the inside, and the hooks were wound with scarlet flannel, while that
in my hand line had copper on the outside, brightly polished, but
neither feathers nor flannel round the hooks. We passed down from the
outer point of the island toward the lower part of the bay without
success, but when returning inside, my right-hand rod suddenly bent, and
the line slowly unwound from the reel, over which I had taken a couple
of turns to prevent its rendering too rapidly; dropping the hand-line,
which was made fast to the seat, I seized the rod, and turning it round
and reaching my line, commenced to draw it in as lightly and delicately,
but steadily as possible, just holding it between the tips of my
fingers. The fish was large, and when he was about half-way in, having
come thus far with no other objections than a few violent flounces, he
made a fierce rush; instantly the line slipped with a steady but slight
strain through my fingers, and he dashed off for some distance, but soon
tired, he allowed me to pull him up to the side of the boat; once there,
grasping the wire above the hook, I lifted him quickly over the side and
threw him on the bottom, where he flounced about vigorously and with
energy enough, if exhibited sooner, to have broken almost any line.
Taking the hook carefully by the shank, I twisted it out of his mouth,
and weighing him with the scales that were always in my pocket, found he
weighed ten pounds.
Turning at the head of the little cove, we retraced our path and struck
another fish, and so over and over again, some of them making violent
but unavailing efforts to escape, others slapping off just as they were
being lifted into the boat, others again coming in with their heads out
of water like a yawl towed behind a steamboat. Sometimes it was the
right-hand rod that bent, sometimes the left, then the hand-line felt
the strain--often two and sometimes all three at once; it kept me busy,
to say the least of it. The reels were of little use, as the boatman had
to keep rowing to prevent the lines sinking to the bottom and catching
in the weeds, which, in spite of all precautions they sometimes
succeeded in doing, and the strain was consequently too great for them.
The bottom of the boat was filled with the long-bodied, wolfish and
ravenous devils, that snapped their jaws, struggled about, their eyes
gleaming with impotent fury and merciless cruelty, as ugly looking a set
as the sun ever shone upon; but as they were brought in, one after
another, my oarsman was delighted.
We remained on the same spot, rowing round until satisfied we should get
no more, when we headed over toward the Canadian shore, into the
far-famed region of Eel Bay. The latter takes its name from a fly that
is found in the fore part of July in immense numbers on the waters of
this region. It appears to one who has small claims as an entomologist
to be the May-fly or famous Green and Grey Drake of England. Some that I
pressed and brought to the city were recognized at once by the English
fly-makers, who were delighted to see an old friend, and made a number
of them for me after the pattern, saying that there was but a shade of
color between them and what they had so often prepared as the May-fly at
home. These flies appear in myriads; when the wind is northerly, the
waves will cover the dock at Cape Vincent with them several inches
thick. Their body is long and so heavy that in the early morning, when
their wings are damp with the dew, they cannot rise to fly and are
readily picked up by their wings, which project invitingly above their
backs. Eel Bay is named from the immense quantities of these flies that
appear there; they constitute the principal food of the fish from which
they derive their name, as well as of the cisco, black and rock bass,
chubs, and probably many others. They rise with difficulty from the
water, and fly heavily and slowly.
Our course carried us across the rapid current of the St. Lawrence,
where my boatman was glad to have me haul in my lines, that dragged
heavily, as there was no chance of taking fish. We were soon in the bay,
an extensive reach formed by a bend in the St. Lawrence, lying upon one
side, out of the force of the current, and filled with innumerable
islands. It probably holds within itself a thousand isles. They are of
all kinds, shape, form and appearance, some half a mile in extent,
constituting a cultivated farm, others a bare rock scarcely projecting
above the surface, some covered with a dense foliage, others furnishing
a single tree, and many bare of tree, bush or grass. There is immense
variety of appearance, but all are inconceivably picturesque. None are
very high, but at times the rocks run straight up like a wall of stone,
while others are long, low and flat. They are clustered together, often
affording barely room for the boat to pass, and offer to the eye every
variety of shape and foliage. Amid them we now wandered, admiring their
bewitching beauty as they lay basking in the broad sunlight upon the
calm bosom of the river. Seldom are they inhabited, and most of the
primeval forest trees having been cut, they have grown up with a dense
underwood, occasionally relieved by some tall monarch of the forest that
has survived the fury of man.
Keeping close along under the overhanging tree or rock, or passing into
the open water with ever-changing scenery, we drew from the “vasty
deep,” where the long pickerel weed could be seen reaching up toward the
surface, one after another of those savage monsters, the Great Northern
Pickerel. Without catching anything of wonderful size, we had taken an
unusual number, when the calls of hunger warned us that the hours were
fleeting faster than we thought.
Landing at the point of an island where there was a beautiful natural
grove, we set to work to build a fire and prepare our fish for dinner.
The pleasantest arrangement connected with this fishing is that each
boat is provided with a basket of good cold fare, a frying-pan and the
necessary means of cooking; and in the middle of the day it is customary
for several to meet at an appointed island, and for the fishermen to
have a jolly dinner. Although we were first to arrive, our companions
were not long behind us, and the best fish, especially the black bass,
were selected, cleaned, split open, and fried in the grease tried out of
a few pieces of salt pork. Our provisions were combined and made quite a
handsome picnic set-out, rendered more acceptable to our sharpened
appetite by a few glasses of iced champagne. Of course we had our
stories to tell: how skillfully we had landed this fish, or how
unfortunately we had lost that; and one man, who had struck and almost
landed a mascallonge, was agitated with mingled happiness and
despondency. The days were long, our boatmen had had a hard tug of it,
the shade was grateful, the champagne refreshing, our cigars excellent,
and consequently no one was hurried. The wind, however, kept increasing,
and after a couple of hours, pleasantly passed, we once more embarked
and bid each other farewell till night.
My boatman struck well in toward the Canadian shore; but although we
crossed places where he had had wonderful success on many a previous
occasion, and of which there were extraordinary stories of mascallonge,
our luck had deserted us. However, perseverance was rewarded; suddenly
my hand-line was taughtened as though it had struck a log; for a moment
it was still, then I felt the motion of the fish. The boatman instantly
dropped his oars and reeled in as quickly as possible the other
lines--just in time; for the fish, feeling he was caught, made one rush
directly toward us. I drew in the line hand over hand, to have something
to give out when he should make away again, but not nearly so fast as he
moved. He passed close to us; we could see the broad back, the long
nose, the fierce eye, the mighty length of the mascallonge.
“Turn the boat broadside toward him,” I whispered as he passed.
Away he went, the slack of the line hissed through the water as his
increasing distance took it up, and partially deadened his way as he
reached the end of it and came against the light though steady strain
with which I held it. Giving to him, at first readily then more
sparingly, I again turned him; this time he did not approach so near,
but swung round well in-shore. Then, with a sudden rush, he came
straight on, and flashed directly beneath the bottom of the boat. If the
line once touched the rough surface, or caught in a splinter of the
wood, we knew it would part like pack-thread. The oarsman tried to swing
her round; there was no time; hastily gathering a few coils, I threw
them into the water at the stern, and passing the line over my head,
anxiously watched them sink. Suddenly they were taken up, the line in my
hand taughtened and lifted out of water; it had not caught, and that
danger was past. The struggle lasted long; again and again he darted
away; once he nearly exhausted my line, and compelled me to use
considerable force, but generally I held the least possible strain on
him. Finally, he made one grand rush, was foiled, allowed himself to be
drawn alongside, and was neatly gaffed by the boatman.
He was an immense fish, a triton even among pickerel of ten pounds.
Beauty he certainly did not possess, but grandeur and ferocity marked
every lineament. His huge head, immense jaws, and terrible teeth, his
long, narrow body, large fins, and broad tail, and above all, his
fierce, gleaming, savage eye, marked him as the undisputed master of the
fresh waters. His enormous size and prodigious strength, the latter
exemplified by his nearly springing over the gunwale, indicated that he
had no match even in our extensive lakes, while his merciless ferocity,
that would spare neither large nor small, friend nor foe, was but too
apparent. His weight, as afterward ascertained, was thirty-five pounds,
and his length was excessive proportionally to other fish. Although he
fought well, he had not exhibited in the water the vigor he did out of
it. Now that his fate was sealed, he lashed about, struggled and
flounced as though his capture had just commenced, and scarcely showed
an intimation of approaching death or surrender. It appears to be a
peculiarity of the pickerel family that they exhibit their courage and
strength too late, waiting till they are manacled before they fairly
rouse themselves to the emergency. Their efforts consequently afford
little pleasure to the sportsman or profit to themselves.
Having captured the master spirit of the stream, we did not wish any of
his smaller brethren, and while he was dying we wound up the hand-line
and removed the spinning tackle from the others. I then took out a
twelve-foot salmon leader, or casting-line, as our friends across the
water express it, and fastened on it, at equal distances, five large
flies, the upper dropper and tail-flies being dressed with white and
ibis feathers mixed on a large sized salmon hook, while the intermediate
ones were small, dark colored salmon flies. This leader, thus equipped,
being fastened to one line, and a similar one, except that a small, gay
spoon replaced the tail-fly, to the other, they were trolled thirty or
forty yards astern, so that they sank well as we moved slowly along.
Then, leaving the quiet bays, with their sluggish current and weedy
bottom, we struck out boldly into the rapid water and sought the rocky
shoals where black bass love to hide and wait.
The wind had increased till there was quite a sea, and it was difficult
to manage the boat; but that was soon forgotten in the excitement. The
fish were numerous and in excellent disposition; every shoal we crossed
furnished us with several; we often took two or three at a time, and
occasionally had both lines engaged at once. They were brave, vigorous
and determined; madly they darted forward on feeling the hook, and threw
themselves high out of water to shake it from their mouths; finding that
vain, they made rush after rush to escape, again and again they leaped
in the air, resolute and courageous to the last; not till they were in
the net would they surrender.
Strange it was to note the different shades of their colors. Their deep
sides, for they are an awkward-looking fish, and their shape gives
little indication of their strength, were, in some, of that dark green,
almost black, from which their name is derived; in others it was a light
green, and again in others pale yellow. Whence these variations are
derived, unless it be from the shade of the ground they live on, to
which all fish are said to assimilate, is not known; but it has often
led to their being divided into distinct classes, or mistaken for other
species. Their peculiarity of springing out of water is remarkable.
Salmon and blue-fish do so frequently, trout rarely, and other fish
seldom or never; but a black bass of any size will invariably make one
or more desperate leaps. It is a glorious sight to see his full length
above the water, and a nervous moment till the line that has been
slacked is again taughtened by his strain. Such leaps are his most
effective means of escape, by enabling him to shake the hook from his
mouth or strike the line with his tail; and though not so persevering as
the trout, generally, at the sight of the net, he makes a final,
dangerous rush.
We coasted along by island after island, crossing near one named after
“Old Bill Johnston,” memorable for having taken an active part in the
Canadian rebellion, and long forced to hide from his English pursuers.
Johnston’s Island, as it is called, was his favorite resort, where he
was succored and warned of danger by his beautiful daughter, universally
known as the Queen of the Isles. What a theme for the poet or the
novelist the father safe neither on the English shore, where he had
waged unjustifiable war, nor among the Americans, who would have been
compelled to surrender him, lurking among those beautiful isles, then
wilder and more densely wooded than now, trusting for his support to
his rod and line--for he rarely dared to use his rifle--and to the
scanty supplies brought by his daughter; the latter residing on shore
watching for any expedition that might be fitted out against him, and at
the first intimation darting off in her light canoe in spite of rain or
storm, in the daylight or impenetrable darkness, and arriving at her
retreat, perhaps just in time to warn him of his danger and enable him
to escape. Imagine the woman’s ready wit, ever at work, ever on the
watch for him; imagine the father’s joy on seeing her amid his trying
and wearisome solitude, and her anxiety till he is once more out of
danger. The thought that such things had really happened so near to
where we then were, added to our excitement, and was only dissipated on
passing Whisky Island, which is in dangerous proximity to the former.
Our boat was headed down-stream and driven before the strong wind; we
moved rapidly with varying success till we arrived at one little shoal,
the name of which I have forgotten, or it never existed, and where we
found fish innumerable. Frequently every hook on both lines was engaged;
often I landed three, sometimes four, and once or twice five fish at a
time. The sport was wonderfully exciting; first one rod bent, then the
other; and then, while I was busy foiling the struggles of fish so
numerous that they made the water foam, I would see with a feeling of
despair the other rod bend and the line slowly render round the reel. It
was impossible to move faster, useless to hurry; but, as quickly as I
could and dared, the fish were brought to net. This shoal was
[Illustration: THE STRIPED BASS--ROCK FISH--(_Labrax lineatus_.)]
exposed to the full fury of the wind, and the water dashed in over the
bow or broke against the side, while the oarsman had all he could manage
to row against the blast.
Round and round this spot we moved, ever with the same result; the lines
were not half out before they would be seized, it was almost impossible
to keep the two rods in play. This lasted till we were both utterly worn
out with the excitement and the exertion, and were compelled to give up
from sheer exhaustion. My fingers had many a bloody mark left by the
reel-handle, that a sudden rush had jerked from my grasp, and being
compelled in the uncomfortable seat to turn my body round to reel up, my
back was almost broken. The man had rowed as long as he could, but was
forced to run down between the Powder-horn and Shot-bag Islands and rest
awhile before breasting the storm homeward.
We had had great luck, taking in the last hour and a half seventy-three
bass. It was a glorious sight when we arrived at home to see our fish
laid out side by side, the mascallonge at their head, and tapering
regularly down to a half-pound black bass. The latter do not average any
great size, rarely exceeding three pounds and never known to be taken
over six; but a day upon the St. Lawrence among those beautiful Thousand
Isles, either in pursuit of the mighty mascallonge, the furious
pickerel, or, best of all, the spirited black bass, will never be
regretted by the poet or the sports man.
CHAPTER XXI.
STRIPED BASS.
_Labrax Lineatus_--_Rock-fish of Pennsylvania and the South_--_Perca
Labrax_ (Smith)--_Sciena Lineata_ (Black.)
This fish, which has a large number of scientific names and several
popular ones, belongs to the Perch family, has two spines on the after
part of the gill-cover, and the margin of the fore gill-cover rough like
the edge of a saw. Its color is bluish on the back, light on the sides,
and white on the belly. The sides are marked by seven to nine
longitudinal dark lines, from which its name is derived, the upper of
which reach the tail, but the lower fade out above the anal fin. These
lines sometimes are broken or consist of contiguous dots. The ventral
fins are below and somewhat behind the pectorals, and have the first
rays spinous. The fore part of the dorsal has nine spiny rays, and at
the interval between that and the after part there is another small hard
ray, while the after part is composed of twelve soft rays. The pectorals
have sixteen soft rays, the ventrals one hard and five soft, the anal
three hard and eleven soft, and the tail seventeen soft rays.
Whether the name Bass means Perch or not, I cannot say, although there
is no such tradition among my Dutch ancestry, and I am unable to find
the word in their Dutch dictionaries. There could, however, be no more
creditable derivation, and as many authorities assert the fact, it is as
well to let it pass. The fish are found along the coast from Maine to
Florida, although they appear never to have visited Europe, and are the
gamest salt water fish of our continent. In their season, which is at
intervals from early Spring to late in Fall, they are taken on the bars
and in every creek of our extensive coast. The net destroys the greater
number, but they bite freely and fight bravely for their lives. Great
skill and experience are requisite for their successful capture when
they are shy and scarce, but when abundant or hungry, although always a
dainty fish, they bite rapidly and boldly. Like the squid of the deep
seas, these may be said to be the largest and smallest of fish; they are
taken from an ounce to a hundred pounds’ weight.
The Striped Bass becomes an object of the angler’s attention in April,
when he runs up the rivers to spawn. He ascends into cool fresh water,
until arrested by a natural, or, too frequently, an artificial barrier.
He is taken under the Cohoes Falls in the Mohawk, and at Albany and Troy
in the Hudson, and reaches the very head-waters of the Delaware, where
he is known as Rock-fish. Many, and those the largest, do not appear to
leave the salt water, and are found in the small bays and inlets. In the
fall, when the cold weather sets in, they retire to the salt water coves
and lagoons, where they lie imbedded in the mud or hiding near the
bottom, secure against danger, or discomfort from cold or storms.
Advantage is taken of this peculiarity by the market fishermen, and
there is a pond on Long Island, near Sag Harbor, and others near Point
Judith, that are a source of great profit to their owners. The mill-pond
at Stamford having carried away the gates one Winter, and run out nearly
dry, striped bass of immense size were picked up by cart-loads from the
muddy bottom.
These fish can be confined to fresh water without being permitted to
visit the sea, and they will not only live and breed, but are said to be
much improved by the change. In September they appear on the coast in
shoals, and are taken both inside and outside of the bars, and in the
bays and inlets where they resort for food. As they are much sought
after and highly appreciated, and as I have added largely to my own
knowledge by drawing extensively upon the experience of my friends, the
following description of the numerous modes of taking them will be found
rather minute.
When they first appear in April the shad are running, and hence, in the
rivers that the latter frequent, shad roe is the best though most
troublesome of all baits. In places where shad are not to be found, the
bass are suspicious of such bait. As it is most difficult to fasten on
the hook, it must be cut with the skin that envelops it, and tied on
with tow, flax, or floss silk. Stonehenge, after eloquently defending
the use of the salmon roe as a bait, which is ordinarily considered a
kind of poaching, gives for its preparation the following directions,
that apply equally well to the shad roe: Boil the roe without its
envelope for twenty minutes; bruise it in a mortar to a uniform
consistency; add to each pound an ounce of common salt and a quarter of
an ounce of saltpeter; beat them together and store in an earthen jar
covered with a bladder. Frank Forrester recommends that the roe be well
washed and thoroughly dried in the air, salted with two ounces of rock
salt and a quarter of an ounce of saltpeter to a pound of spawn, dried
gently and potted down, covered with melted lard or suet in earthen
jars. This, either fresh or potted, is a most effective bait for striped
bass, but I confess for trout my experience is to the contrary.
In streams that the shad do not frequent, striped bass are taken early
in the season with shrimp threaded on longitudinally, by passing the
point of the hook under the back plates; as the season advances, and
crabs shed their coats, with the shedder, or better, soft crabs; and in
the Fall with shrimp, the bass, or barred killey, and the spearing. In
fishing with shrimp--and it is a good bait all the season through, and
must be tried when others fail--use a float fastened about three feet
above a swivel sinker, to the lower swivel of which are to be attached
two distinct gut leaders, one of three feet, the other of two. Single
gut, if large, round, and true, is decidedly preferable to double, and
the hook should never be a coarse, clumsy Limerick, which has such an
undeserved reputation, but a delicate Carlisle, with a broad, round
bend. If very large fish are expected--and they rarely are--use No. 0;
but generally No. 3 is large enough. With crab the hook must be larger.
I prefer always to have the point of the hook covered, and recommend
that the shrimp should be bunched on till they hide the hook entirely,
and form a round, attractive bait, composed of so many shrimp as no bass
ever before saw together.
In June, and throughout the Summer, the crab is a better bait ordinarily
than the shrimp. I prefer the soft crab, because it does not dull the
point of the hook, as will sometimes happen with a shedder that is not
quite ripe; it is easily cut up into proper baits, whereas the shedder
has to be skinned, or, more properly, shelled--a long and nasty
operation; it is always in good order whereas others, unless carefully
selected, and kept just the right time, will tear to pieces in the
course of preparation; and finally, the skin of the soft crab,
especially as it verges toward the buckram, enables the hook to retain
its hold. Judging from human nature, I fancy the fish must prefer a
nice, soft, plump bait, to one that is jagged and half full of pieces of
shell.
Most writers say, fish with crab on the bottom, because there it is
naturally found; I say, fish with it near the top, because no sensible
fish can imagine that a quarter of a crab long since dead and
dismembered has any control over its own motions. In fact there is no
unbending rule for fishing; the only way is to try all plans, and if the
fish will not notice your crab suspended in mid-water, take off your
float and swivel sinker, put on a running sinker, as it is called, made
like a piece of lead pipe with a small hole in the centre, tie a knot in
the line to prevent its going down on the hook; use a single bait of a
good-sized piece of crab and cast well out from you, and the first eel
that comes along will astonish, not to say disgust you. The line being
free, though the lead lies on the bottom, you can feel the first touch
of a fish, and strike at once; whereas if the sinker were the
old-fashioned deep sea lead he would have to drag its weight some
distance before the fisherman would be aware of his proceedings. A man,
by fishing on the bottom, although justified by a philosophy which
establishes the fact that bass ought to look for crabs there, and not
dangling about in mid-water, will surely catch three eels to one bass.
The truth is, crabs are not found on the bottom in such places,
generally strong foaming currents, which they never frequent unless
carried away by the force of the water, and soft crabs are by their
natural enemies, and many other causes, often torn into pieces and borne
about by the tide.
The bait should be kept in continual motion: this is the first law of
all bait fishing. It is done by twitching the rod, and induces the fish
to seize the prey, which they imagine is about to escape. I have seen
them time and again dart at a bait when in motion, that they had smelt
round contemptuously when still. Crab is universally regarded as the
preëminent bass-bait in Summer, although its reputation is disputed by
that wonderful production of the sea, the squid. This horrible monster,
of which sailors tell such astounding stories, has illuminated the tales
of olden time, and been a pet forecastle yarn with ancient and modern
mariners. There are accounts of ships seized by its arms, that reached
to the mastheads, and sunk or only saved by prayers to the Virgin Mary
and the vigorous use of axes on its many muscular and boneless limbs; of
grateful mariners presenting pictures of the dreadful encounter to the
shrine of Our Lady; of huge pieces of the arms of this fish, indicating
that they must have been sixty or more feet long, found in the maw of
the whale, whose food they are; and horrible stories whispered with
bated breath, of men in bathing drawn down by even the smaller of the
monsters. Though there must be something in it, I doubt if this is all
true, notwithstanding the squid is ugly enough for anything. With us the
squid or cuttle-fish is harmless except to the sight, and in his native
element is glad to hide himself in the obscurity of a dark liquid that
he has the power of emitting, when pursued. The only bone in his body is
in the middle of his stomach, and what it is put there for unless to
give him an accurate idea of indigestion, no one knows. For the present
it is enough to say he is good bait, although not handsome, and may be
used either in trolling or still fishing.
Another excellent bait early in the Fall, although nowhere mentioned in
the books, and, I believe, my own discovery, is the scollop. My
attention was first called to it by some men opening them for the table
and throwing the many-eyed skins into the water. The bass collected at
once and rushed eagerly to the very dock, almost springing out of water
to seize the coveted morsel. Upon this hint I acted, and by great care,
for the scollop is extremely tender, and by passing the hook several
times through the skin, I succeeded in keeping the bait on while I cast
very gently. My success was astonishing, and then and afterward I took
the largest fish under the most unfavorable circumstances with it, when
they would not touch the most tempting crab. The heart of the scollop is
pearly white, and is attractive and so good that no wonder the bass
should be crazy for it. It is difficult to manage and easily washed off
the hook, but if any fisherman shall see bass, as I have often, lying
in a deep pool, occasionally leaping out or sluggishly showing their
back fins on the surface and refusing all allurements, let him try
scollops, and he will think of me in his dying hour.
As the days grow colder and the crab reassumes his impenetrable coat and
dangerous pincers, shrimp again come into play, and on many occasions
the belly of the white soft clam will attract the bass even earlier in
the season. But in August I have had excellent sport casting, if I may
use the word, for him with the spearing. Early in Summer a delicate
little fish an inch or two long, pearly white and semi-transparent, with
a black eye and a white band along the lateral line, makes its
appearance on the shores of Long Island Sound and elsewhere, and has
come to be called the spearing. It is a beautiful fish, and properly
dressed might rival in delicacy the far-famed English white-bait; but it
is never brought to market till later in the season, when it has grown
several inches long and is comparatively tasteless. Being too small in
the early summer to take a hook, they are difficult to catch; but an
excellent net, both for them and killey-fish, can be made of mosquito
netting stretched double between two hoop-poles, with a stout cord run
along the top and bottom to receive the leads and floats respectively.
The netting being of extra width, can be doubled together with the lead
line laid in the bag, or, as sailors would say of a rope, in the bight,
and the leads being small pipe, fastened at short intervals, will keep
the net close to the bottom--an important particular. It should be five
to six yards long; and two men, taking each a handle, can sweep a
considerable part of the shore, and often fill a pail with minnows or
spearing at one haul.
The killey-fish, so called by our ancestors from being caught in the
kills or creeks, and which, by the by, are at least of three kinds
without counting sticklebacks, will rush about and try to creep under
the net; but spearing, which always go in shoals, when once in the net
do not seem to be able to escape, and will stay there as long as it is
kept in motion. No fisherman living near the water should be without
this contrivance, as nothing is so annoying as to be unable to get bait;
he will soon acquire considerable skill in its use, and if he is as
boyish as a fisherman ought always, though grey-headed, to be, he will
experience much excitement in the pursuit even of his bait. If spearing
cannot be had, though that is rare, the barred killey, vulgarly called
the bass killey, is the next in beauty and attractiveness; it is the
_Fundulus fasciatus_, or striped killey-fish of De Kay, and if it cannot
be had, the ugly green killey-fish, _Fundulus viridescens_, may be used,
but with doubtful success.
To cast with spearing in the manner here suggested successfully, a stout
long salmon rod will be requisite. A small hook is run through the
spearing’s mouth and out at his side, for he is long since dead, and a
cast is made into the foaming torrent of a mill-tail or rushing tide.
The bait is drawn irregularly over the surface of the water, and again
cast and played like the fly. The bass strike it as trout or salmon take
the latter, and there is the same skill and uncertainty in the pursuit.
I was once fishing in this manner for snapping mackerel, the young of
the blue-fish, _Temnodon saltator_, with single gut half worn through,
and the lightest tackle. I had been quite successful, much to the
disgust of older men who were fishing in the usual manner with live
killey and no luck, and finally made a cast right among a number of
their floats. Suddenly, from the turbid depths, shot a huge bass,
gleamed for a moment in the sunlight, and disappeared beneath the
surface carrying my spearing in his mouth. It was a splendid fish, and
my skill was tried to the utmost; many a run I was forced to give to,
and only the great length of line I had on the reel saved him; after a
good half hour’s excellent sport I brought him to the net, and my
companions were still more disgusted at their want of luck. I again made
a few casts, catching several snappers, when another bass, full as large
as the first, struck me and was landed after an equally spirited
contest. This was early in September, and before the fish were taken by
trolling in that neighborhood.
In June and October, bass of great size are captured off Point Judith
with half a mossbunker, otherwise menhaden, hard-head or bony-fish, the
_Alosa menhaden_, thrown from the rocks by rod or hand into the surf.
The bait is ordinarily tied on the hook, which is large, and thrown
without float or sinker as far into the sea as its weight will enable
the fisherman to cast, and then slowly reeled or drawn in. Similar
fishing is pursued at Newport, and bass are frequently taken of over
forty pounds.
A favorite mode of catching these fish is by trolling from a boat either
with rod and line or hand-line and with the natural squid, or the
imitation made of pewter, tin or bone. In this mode very large fish
were once taken at Hell Gate, but the glory thereof has departed. Where
squid cannot be obtained, the large spearing or barred killey will
answer well.
There is this redeeming quality about taking striped bass with the float
and sinker, that the fishing generally being done in a rapid, and at
times, boisterous current, the bait has to be kept in motion, and it is
necessary to reel in and cast out every few minutes. As great skill in
casting can be obtained, and there is an immense advantage in throwing
into the exact spot, it is truly a sportsmanlike mode of procedure. A
good fisherman can cast thirty to forty yards, or even more, into the
size of a hat, without tangling the line or jerking the bait, while the
tyro will generally fail reaching half the distance, and will frequently
leave his baits on the way. I can cast better and further from the left
side, and have heard many old fishermen say the same, but you must be
able to use the rod on either side.
As there are persons so ignorant as not to know how to cast at all, and
as I once found one stopping his reel with his first finger, I will say
that to make a cast the line is reeled up till the float touches the
tip, or in case no float is used, till the bait is within a foot of it,
the right hand grasps the rod at the reel, which is turned up, and the
thumb placed upon it to regulate the escape of the line; the left hand
is near the but; the point of the rod is then carried back behind the
fisherman, and with a steady, springy motion is suddenly brought forward
and the line delivered. A jerk, or the fouling of the line, which will
surely happen if it is allowed to overrun, will certainly tear off your
baits, and perhaps your float and sinker; the sinker must strike the
water in advance of the float, or the leader is apt to hitch round the
upper point of the latter.
The most scientific and truly sportsmanlike mode of taking striped bass
must be admitted to be with the fly; which, unfortunately, can only be
done in the brackish or fresh water. Like salmon, they will not take the
fly in the salt creeks and bays, and thus, though the sport is
excellent, it is confined to few localities, and those difficult of
access. Fly-fishing may be done either with the ordinary salmon rod, or
in a strong current with the common bass rod, by working your fly on the
top of the water and giving a considerable length of line. The best fly
is that with the scarlet ibis and white feathers mixed, the same as used
for black bass; but bass may be taken with any large fly, especially
those of gay color. Excellent sport is frequently had in this way from
off some open bridge, where the falling tide, mixed with the fresh
water, rushes furiously between the piers.
It is generally conceded that the best time for bass fishing is at
night, especially if the moon be bright. The most favorable wind is a
southwesterly one, strong enough to make a good ripple on the water, and
the right time of tide from half-ebb to half-flood. In the shallower
inlets the neap tides are preferable, as they do not drain the water so
low as to alarm the fish.
In bass fishing, whether for trolling or casting, the rod should be
eight to ten feet long, stiff and light, but with a certain amount of
elasticity. A rod made of a piece of bamboo, cut in two joints, will,
until some awkward friend steps on and breaks it, answer as well as any
other, and one that costs three dollars is in every particular as good
as one worth forty. The light bamboo jointed rods of our ancestors are
no more to be had; the makers say it is impossible to get the cane of
the proper taper, and rods of ash and hickory have come into fashion.
The latter will answer every purpose, but as they are sure to warp, the
guides should be double, so that the line can be shifted from one side
to the other. Patent standing guides are all the fashion with us, though
the English use the old-fashioned rings made large. Of course we prefer
our own invention. The funnel-top should be large, and for a valuable
rod, or a particular gentleman, should be made of agate. They are
infinitely superior to the old-fashioned ring-top still used in England.
Avoid having many guides; they create friction, and three or four will
answer every purpose.
If you are a gentleman and a man of fortune, of lavish hand and open
heart, you should use what is called a grass or raw silk line, buying a
new one every two weeks, by which time it will be rotted out. It does
not kink or over-run, works beautifully, and will enable you to cast ten
yards further than with any other; but it is not strong at best, will
rot immediately if not dried after the least exposure, and costs money.
If you are a poor or a careless man, buy a new flax line every year, and
throw it away in the Fall, after being disgusted with it all the season.
If you are neither of these, buy a plaited silk line of one hundred
yards; be sure and get a new one, and take care of it.
Lines may be preserved from rotting by being dipped in a mixture made
of one pound of printer’s varnish, half a pound of siccity, and one gill
of spirits of turpentine, warmed up together, or in the ordinary drying
oil sold at the paint shops, and although they do not render quite so
easy, I have all mine, trout and bass lines, so prepared. I cannot take
the trouble to dry my lines after every exposure, and if once forgotten,
without being so protected, they are ruined. A well-made silk line is
strong enough to hang oneself by, if the angler should be disgusted with
life by his ill luck, and coated in this manner they will last a long
time. They do not get saturated or take up water in casting, and do not
stick to the rod as they otherwise would. Lines for fly fishing,
prepared in a similar manner, are sold in the fishing-tackle stores,
although the makers are opposed to an improvement that will diminish
their business. The line is dipped in the preparation when warm, and
left in all night; it is removed next morning after the mixture has been
rewarmed, and is stretched in a garret or other place not exposed to the
sun or rain, and the superfluous varnish wiped off, and after it is
thoroughly dried, it is well rubbed. This preparation cannot be used
with linen or cotton lines, as it will rot them.
In striking a bass you cannot be too quick, and when fishing with a
float your line will sink in the water and enable you to trip the float
and fix the hook at once. The fish must then be kept well in hand; but
never exhibit severity unless compelled by circumstances; be rough, and
the fish will be rough; be gentle, and he will come to you like a
friend. Keep him from the rocks and bottom if possible; but give to his
willful rushes till he is content to listen to reason. By this course
you will avoid feeling often that sinking of the heart that follows when
the strain suddenly ceases on your line, and you know he has
escaped.[16]
That fine game fish of the southern States usually called bass or
red-fish, belongs to another family, and is the _Corvina ocellata_, or
branded corvina. It is distinguished by a peculiar black spot, like a
drop of ink, near the tail. It furnishes noble sport and excellent
eating, abounds in the neighborhood of the Chesapeake Bay, and is highly
prized at southern tables.
CHAPTER XXII.
BLACK BASS.
_Gristes Nigricans_ (Agassiz)--_Centrarchus Fasciatus_ (De Kay).
This fish has innumerable scientific names, while it can scarcely be
said to have any distinctive popular one. Bass, either alone or with
some additional appellation, is applied by common usage to almost the
entire perch family, one of the largest among the American fishes, while
scientific men are at as great a loss for appropriate nomenclature or
accurate distinctions. There are probably several species classed under
the same name as this fish, and itself differs greatly in color and
appearance, according to its food, water or locality. There is no doubt
that all fish, and more especially trout, change their hues according to
the color of the water they inhabit, or even to the light or shade of
their favorite haunts. It is supposed that they assimilate to the bottom
where they are found, a provision of nature to protect them from their
enemies of the air. Unquestionably the same species present a very
different appearance in clear, limpid streams, and in muddy, sluggish
brooks. Black Bass are said to possess of themselves the power to change
their color at will, and have been known to do so repeatedly when
confined in a vessel of water. They are found to have black, green and
yellow sides, according to circumstances, and often within a short
distance of one another, though their backs are generally dusky black.
The gill-cover has two flat points, the teeth are minute, while the back
fin, though single, is partly divided into two. It contains ten hard and
fourteen soft rays; the pectoral has eighteen soft rays, the ventral
six, the first one almost spinous, the anal three spines, the first very
short, and twelve soft rays, and the tail sixteen soft rays. This fish
has been confounded with the Lake Huron Black Bass, _Huro nigricans_,
which is now supposed to be a different variety, characterized by two
longitudinal lines or stripes running the entire length of its body.
The gill-rays are six and the fin-rays, as given by Dr. De Kay, are as
follows, but I think liable to considerable variation.
D. 9.1.14; P. 18; V. 5; A. 3.12; C. 16-6/6.
Black Bass, belonging as they do to the perch family, have many of the
habits and can be captured in the same manner as their congeners. But,
as they are infinitely superior in flavor, they are equally so in game
and sporting qualities. They will take minnows, shiners, grasshoppers,
frogs, worms, or almost anything else that can be called a bait, and
like all fish, prefer the live to the dead. They may be fished for with
good stout tackle, gut leaders, a reel, and an ordinary bass rod, in the
same manner as fish are generally captured by boys and blockheads. In
June they affect the grassy bottom in water fifteen to twenty feet deep,
but as the season advances they resort to the rocky shoals and rapid
currents, where they are taken on and after the middle of July by
sportsmen with the fly. They may be captured by casting the fly as for
salmon or trout, and this is by far the most sportsmanlike way, but the
most destructive and usually resorted to is trolling. For casting, a
two-handed seventeen foot salmon, rod is preferable, while for trolling,
a short bass rod is the thing. By anchoring your boat to the windward of
a shoal, or by walking out on some point of rocks, you can command a
great extent of water with your fly-rod, and have royal sport alone,
whereas for trolling an oarsman is indispensable.
The flies to be used are the ordinary small-sized salmon flies, not too
gaudy, though the first dropper and tail fly may be larger and made of
white and ibis feathers mixed. In casting you will use your ordinary
cast, but in trolling you may attach five or six flies to a long salmon
leader at equal distances, and will frequently take several fish at a
time. My experience has convinced me that a number of flies attract
fish, whether trout or bass, and the more you can conveniently use the
greater will be your success.
Black bass abound in the northern waters, where they are invariably
trolled for with two rods, one on each side of the boat, in the same
manner as in taking pickerel, but two rods are a great additional
trouble, for when a fish strikes one the other has to be reeled up by
your boatman, lest the hooks sink to the bottom. If the boat is kept in
motion, it is almost impossible to reel in a large bass, and would make
a labor of a pleasure, even if he should be eventually captured.
A small trolling spoon is excellent bait, probably preferable to the fly
at all seasons except the middle of July, when the eel-fly, the
principal food of the bass, is just disappearing, and the artificial fly
is then a luxury. In case a spoon is used, the shank of the hook is
usually wound with ibis feathers, and a Buel’s patent is the favorite.
It has been recommended at times to fasten a forked piece of pickerel
tongue on the bend of your fly-hook, but like a similar direction as to
a worm on a trout fly-hook, I have no faith in it. Another successful
bait that has, in my opinion, more reputation than value, is the
_kill-devil_, a creature that is beyond my powers of description, and
must be seen to be appreciated.
The hours and days favorable for fishing are, in the main, similar for
all fish; if the water is deep or turbid there may be an exception, but
generally a southwesterly wind, a cloudy sky, and the morning and
evening hours, will yield the best sport. This is so for black bass, and
the more wind the better, until it becomes difficult to row and manage
the boat. In the western wilds, where deer are plentiful, an attractive
fly is made by tying a white and red tuft of deer’s hair along the shank
of the hook; the thread being passed round the middle of the tuft,
allows the upper part of the hairs to be bent back by the motion through
the water, giving an appearance of life to the bait.
An ingenious mode of proceeding is suggested in Brown’s Angler’s Guide,
that is worthy of young American genius, to which it is attributed. A
boy having caught a sun-fish, runs his hook through its nose and out at
its mouth, covering the point with a lively worm. Other sun-fish, seeing
their fellow have all to himself a fine, fat worm which he seems unable
to master, collect round him, and by their numbers attract the bass,
who dashes in among them, and while the rest make off, swallows the one
with the worm, and of course himself falls a prey to the ingenious young
fisherman. This like the use of cray-fish, mice, swallows, and many
other baits, may be excellent, but I have never tried it or them; so
long as the fish will take a fly, I fish with nothing else; it is
infinitely more exciting to kill one fish on the fly than ten with bait.
Black bass are taken among the Thousand Isles in immense numbers, but
not of any great size, rarely exceeding three pounds. In Lake Champlain,
near Rouse’s Point, and in the lakes of Canada, they grow larger. The
largest, probably, never exceeding eight pounds. They are taken in most
of the waters of the northern and northwestern States, especially in the
Niagara and Detroit rivers, Lake St. Clair, Lake Erie and Lake Huron.
They make their appearance from deep water in May and June, grow to
great excellence in July and August, but are in their best condition in
September and October. They are a fine, noble game fish, and where trout
are not to be had are well worthy of the sportsman’s attention; when
captured, which can only be done by skill and care, they prove an
excellent addition to the table.
The fish usually known as trout at the South, albeit that name is
applied to many varieties, is a species of black bass, and is taken by
trolling with a rod and short line before the boat as it is rowed
along.
CHAPTER XXIII.
ROCK BASS.
_Centrarchus Æneus._--This is an entirely distinct species from the
Black Bass, though, being somewhat similar in color and shape, is often
confounded with them. The same may be said of the Oswego Bass, which is
now ascertained to be equally distinct, though commonly known as bass,
and supposed to be identical. The fish under consideration must in no
wise be confounded with the Rock-fish of Pennsylvania, which is the
Striped Bass, _Labrax lineatus_, and which the benighted Pennsylvanians
would oblige us by calling by its right name.
The Rock Bass has two flat points at the angle of the gill-cover, and is
distinguished from the variety last described by six or seven spines and
eleven soft rays in the anal fin. The dorsal has eleven spines, and ten
or twelve soft rays; the pectoral fourteen soft rays, the ventral one
spine and five soft rays, and the gill-rays are six. The fin-rays are
given by Dr. De Kay as follows:
D. 11.12; P. 14; V. 1.5; A. 6.11; C. 17-3/3.
This fish is found in much the same waters as the black bass, and, like
the latter, made its way on the completion of the Champlain canal
through it into the Hudson River. It takes any of the ordinary baits,
preferring, however, the cray-fish, _Astacus Bartoni_, and can be
[Illustration: SMALL-MOUTHED BLACK BASS--(_Grystes nigricans_.)]
captured even with the fly, but not readily. In the St. Lawrence River
it feeds mostly on the eel-fly, so long as that lasts, choosing, I
believe, the dead ones; and in July I have found them filled with that
fly. They never attain the size of the larger black bass, although they
are taken of over three pounds, but are a brave, voracious fish, and
excellent at table.[17]
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE PIKE PERCH.
_Lucioperca Americana._--This fish is mentioned more on account of the
absurd misnomers that have been applied to it, to warn persons against
similar errors, than on account of its sporting qualities. There appears
to be some confusion among naturalists concerning this family; there is
probably an undescribed species. Dr. De Kay mentions a bluish fish which
he regarded not as a distinct variety, but as an aged specimen. By a
close comparison of the two, I am satisfied that although the scientific
peculiarities are wonderfully alike, there are substantial differences.
The Pike Perch is called the Glass-eye, the Big-eyed Pike, the Pickerel,
Pickering, and Pike of the Lakes; whereas a simple suggestion will
establish the difference between it and the pikes or pickerel. The
latter has all the fin-rays soft, and the ventrals in the centre of the
abdomen, whereas this fish, which is a true perch, has many spinous
rays, and the ventrals close beneath and just behind the pectorals.
The Pike Perch is of an olive color on the back, yellowish on the sides,
and white beneath. It attains a weight of thirty pounds, and is
distinguished particularly by the peculiarity of having the membrane
attached to the last two rays of the first dorsal jet black, whereas
that attached to the other rays is yellow. The lower edge of the
gill-cover has been described as smooth, but I find the fore part of it
slightly serrated; the posterior part has one flat spine, beyond which
there is a pointed membrane, and above a rudimentary spine. There is a
series of sharp teeth on both jaws and the gill-arches, two in the front
of each jaw being long and conspicuous. The base of the tongue is
roughened but toothless, and I can find no teeth on the vomer. The
scales are not large, and have the edges marked out by a series of dots.
The fins, as I make them, are--
Br. 7; D. 13.2.20; P. 10; V. 1.5; A. 1.14; C. 17-3/3.
But according to Dr. De Kay they are--
Br. 7; D. 13.1.21; P. 15; V. 1.5; A. 1.14; C. 17-3/3.
The color of the anal is reddish yellow; of the ventrals light yellow,
and pectorals yellowish olive. There are scales on the gill-covers;
those on the fore gill-cover being scattered and few. Beyond these
differences my examination found the ordinary pike of the lakes to
accord with the description of Dr. De Kay; but the other species that I
have mentioned was very different both in color and appearance, and is,
as I conceive, the true Ohio salmon, a name that has been applied to the
species just described.
As for the color in the latter species, that was totally different,
being so far like the salmon as to have no doubt given origin to the
name. It is bluish grey on the back, greyer on the sides, and white on
the abdomen. The only part of membrane of the dorsal of the salmon that
is black is that attached to the last spine alone of the first dorsal.
The shape of the fore gill-cover is slightly different, and the spines
on its edge are more distinct, and regular, like teeth. There are no
bars on any fin except the dorsal; there are no scales on the
gill-cover, and the fins are all light and transparent. There are minute
teeth on the base of the tongue.
The fish that this description is taken from were found in New York
market on the 25th day of February, and may have been altered by their
winter dress; but they were unknown to the fish-dealers, one of whom
called my attention to them and inquired their name. They did not weigh
over a pound, and the largest was fifteen inches long, of which the head
was four. Of the dorsal, the second, third and fourth rays were the
longest. Being but a sportsman, I mention these matters to attract the
attention of the learned, who would do us a favor if they would seek out
the old Indian names to apply to our anonymous fish.
There is a third described species of _lucioperca_ or pike perch, as the
word means; _lucioperca grisea_, that is found in the limits of New
York, as well as the _lucioperca canadensis_, which belongs to Canada.
It is to be observed that Dr. De Kay puts the length of the _lucioperca
americana_ at 14.5, but says they are occasionally much larger; whereas
the fish known as the pike of the lakes is taken in immense quantities
in Lake Ontario, in April, of twenty pounds’ weight, and rarely falls
below five. There is a small pike perch known as the sorga, with the
same general characteristics, but with the membrane attached to the last
spine-ray of the first dorsal alone black. The back is yellow mottled
with black, and shaded down the sides to white on the abdomen; the
first dorsal is yellow with dusky spots; the second dorsal and tail
yellow with dusky bars; the gill-cover is scaled and the fore gill-cover
partly scaled. It is precisely the shape of what I call the Ohio salmon
but of a totally different color. Its length is about twelve inches, and
its weight does not exceed a pound. The fin-rays are--
Br. 7; D. 12.1.18; P. 12; V. 5; A. 1.11; C. 17-6/6.
There are unquestionably at least three distinct varieties, besides the
grey and the Canadian pike perch; they are popularly known as the pike
the sorga, and the Ohio salmon, and all are highly esteemed for the
table.
[Illustration: _Pike Perch_]
CHAPTER XXV.
THE YELLOW PERCH.
_Perca Flavescens._--The Yellow Perch has, as his name indicates, a
predominant yellow color on his sides; there are a number of dark
vertical bars over the back, and the pectorals, ventrals and anal are
orange. The gill-cover is serrated beneath and armed with a long spine,
and the fore gill-cover has a toothed margin. There are two dorsals; the
ventrals are beneath and slightly behind the pectorals, and the teeth
are minute. The greatest weight is four or five pounds. The fin-rays are
as follows--
D. 13.2.15; V. 1.5; A. 2.8; C. 17-5/5.
Unfortunately, this fish, equally despised by the gourmand and the
sportsman, abounds in our fine ponds and lakes, that ought to be devoted
to his noble congener, the black bass. He will take the fly if it is
allowed to rest in the water, and after hooking a trout that had fouled
in the weeds, I have found a perch on the second fly. He spawns in April
or May, seeking the sandy shore, near projecting roots, where there is a
depth of a foot of water. I have seen them crowded together, male and
female, jostling and following one another round and round through the
roots, pressing out milt and spawn, and so busily engaged that they
could be taken with the net or the hand. In mere wantonness and desire
to diminish their numbers I destroyed all I could, hanging them on
strings with the spawn streaming from them. The eggs, which were almost
transparent, were in the water in masses, kept together by a glutinous
substance, and each marked with a black spot, and could be taken up in
the net, straining slowly through the meshes.
Yellow perch will take worm or minnow, preferring the former, and it is
probable destroy numbers of young trout. Their flesh is coarse, white
and tasteless. They are pursued only by boys and ladies.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXVI.
PROPAGATION OF FISH.
There is no subject more important to the material welfare of our
country, or that a persistent and willful disregard of the laws of
nature has rendered more necessary, than the culture of the various
tribes of fish that were once abundant in our rivers and lakes and along
our coasts, but which are rapidly diminishing, and threaten soon to
become extinct.
Fortunately great strides have been made and great interest aroused in
this matter, and the only article in the first edition of this work
which the author has felt himself called upon to seriously modify, is
that upon this subject. Then there was not a Fishery Commission in a
single State of the Union, nor was there a skilled fish culturist in the
land, except perhaps Dr. Garlick, who was making experiments out West,
and Mr. Seth Green, who was studying out the spawning habits of fish by
himself, by the side of the forest streams, and laying in stores of
knowledge which were to serve as a foundation for the great
fish-cultural fame that he has since acquired. The author may claim that
his former few pages of advice and instruction may have tended in a
measure to bring about the change, and to give to us State Fishery
Commissions in a great majority of the States, and a National
Commission that has no equal for scientific attainments or practical
work in the world. For the creation of the latter, the author also
claims not merely the influence of his writings, but his assistance as a
member of Congress in getting the law passed which established the
United States Fishery Commission, and placed it under the charge of so
efficient a public officer as Mr. Spencer F. Baird.
At that time there was hardly a word written on the subject in this
country except a pamphlet by Dr. Garlick, and such translations from the
French as described the operations under Prof. Coste, and accounts of a
few limited English experiments. Not a private establishment for the
cultivation and sale of fish on any considerable scale existed, and no
expectation that any large public benefits would ever arise from fish
propagation, was generally felt. Since that time hundreds of books have
been written in this country alone, the time of scientific men has been
devoted to it, fish cultural societies have been formed, and there are
several successful establishments for the hatching and sale of young
fish. In no development of this wonderful country has there been so
remarkable an advance, such a change from darkness to light, such an
elevation of public opinion, as in this matter of the artificial
increase of fish.
The limits of this work will not permit a minute and detailed
description of all the details of fish culture. For an exhaustive
treatise on that subject, the reader is referred to a book called
“Fish-Hatching and Fish-Catching,” which contains in a practical form
all that was known up to the time it was written. But general rules are
given in this chapter which will enable the novice, the farmer, the
gentleman country resident and happy owner of a trout stream, to
largely increase his revenue and his pleasure by recruiting his
preserves and making waste waters, if not to blossom as roses, to
produce a yield of food for the table and sport for the rod.
We shall turn first our attention to trout and salmon culture, which are
so nearly identical that they may be studied together. There are at
present no natural salmon rivers in this country except in Maine, Oregon
and California, the efforts to restock the Merrimac and the Connecticut
having only achieved partial success. It is the present opinion of the
writer that salmon were never regular visitors of the Hudson River, or
that if they were indigenous to it, it was only in very limited numbers.
This opinion was formed from a study of the waters which are not well
adapted to the propagation of that class of fishes. Further south than
New York, salmon were probably never known to go at all.
Under the head of Salmon, may be included the salmon, the trout, the
salmon-trout, otherwise called lake-trout, the whitefish, the grayling,
the fresh-water herring or cisco, and California brook-trout, and the
California salmon. The scientific names of these are, _salmo salar_,
_salmo fontinalis_, _salmo confinis_, _salmo amethystus_, _coregonus
albus_, _thymallus signifer_, and _salmo quinnat_. These are all
essentially alike in their mode of culture, the differences being so
inconsiderable that they may be disregarded for the present. We shall
speak of one for the whole, only occasionally pointing out such
individualities as may be necessary.
They spawn in the autumn and winter, with the exception of the
California salmon, which is earlier, and spawns in summer and first of
autumn; the grayling, a fish of the same race, which has lately been
found to exist in our country, and which spawns in March, and the
California brook-trout which spawns in March and April.
The salmon come in from the sea where they have passed the cold weather,
as soon as the ice breaks up, and keep on all summer long running up
into the fresh water; which alone is adapted to the fructification of
their eggs. Trout, in like manner, pass from the ponds and deep lakes
into the cooler streams, where a constant supply of fresh and lively
water can be obtained; whitefish appear from the depths of the great
lakes and seeking the shallows along shore, select gravelly and rocky
reefs and springy spots to lay their eggs.
Salmon and trout make nests, the female digging out the bottom and
fanning away with her fins and tail the mud and finer sand from the
gravel which she afterward uses to cover her eggs. When these operations
are sufficiently advanced, she is joined by the male and they
simultaneously, with one mutual impulse of amatory passion, deposit the
eggs of the female and milt of the male. Only a certain number of these
are extruded at a single impulse, and are then carefully covered over
with gravel by the female, while the male divides his time between
driving away intruders of his own sex, who would usurp his prerogatives
and devouring such stray eggs as may have escaped the notice of his wife
and been carried down stream by the current. One noticeable peculiarity
of the spawn of this class of fish is, that the moment it falls from the
parent, it adheres to whatever it touches. This is a provision of nature
to enable the parent to cover it over with gravel before it is washed
away, which she does with remarkable skill and care, moving the stones
with her ventral fins and tail for that purpose. It remains fast for the
space of thirty minutes or so, and then becomes loose and is swept away
by the current, a dainty morsel for whatever bird or fish or insect that
comes across it. It is also to be observed that the eggs are heavy and
sink to the bottom like shot; a marked peculiarity of the spawn of the
_salmonidae_, and distinguishing them from those of other varieties.
Several different deposits of spawn are made and covered up in this way,
till often quite a mound of fish eggs and gravel is erected. Such mounds
built by the famous trout of Rangeley and her sister lakes are large
enough to fill a two-bushel basket. The operation of emitting the eggs
is not all done at one time or on one day, it occupies several days. As
soon as the nest is completed, and the father and mother are exhausted
of spawn and milt, they drop back worn out and weakly to the deeper
water or the ocean to recuperate. The eggs are left to themselves
unprotected, except for their gravelly covering.
The enemies of fish life are numerous. The most to be dreaded are eels,
which are difficult to exclude from the troughs, and devour eggs and
young with equal voracity. Seven young trout have been taken from the
stomach of an eel six inches long and no thicker than a fine knitting
needle; they grow as they eat, hiding most cunningly in the sand or
gravel from human eye, and making their way through narrow passages and
small holes that a person would not suspect them of being able to enter.
One half-grown eel will destroy an unlimited number of fry or eggs.
Ducks are equally destructive, thrusting their long bills down into the
nests of spawn, or seizing and swallowing the young; frogs, mice, rats,
fish, many birds, and the larvæ of beetles and devil’s darning needles,
and other water flies before they have developed into the perfect
insects do their share of damage. A very large percentage fail to become
impregnated, the current of water probably washing away the milt of the
male before the sperms could enter the eggs. Mr. Livingston Stone says
that in digging some spawn of the California salmon, deposited by the
parents in the natural manner, in the McCloud River, he found only eight
per cent. vitalized.
For almost thirty days after birth the salmon or trout eats nothing, but
is sustained by the absorption of the stomach or what is more accurately
termed the umbilical sac. All this while, as may be readily understood,
he is awkward and hampered in his movements, an easy prey to any hungry
enemy. Appreciating his position he strives to hide himself during this
period; he crawls into holes and under stones, and often hides so
effectually that when he has been artificially hatched his anxious
foster father, the breeder, never discovers what has become of him,
unless his breeding troughs are well made and free from worm holes. But
in this, his hour of weakness, his enemies never desert him, they stand
by him from first to last. At that stage of his development every
miserable shiner, dace and minnow is his master, a very Giant Despair by
comparison with his feebleness.
If he outlives all these perils and attains a marketable size, man steps
in. Man takes the best and so upsets the equipoise of nature, which up
to that time had by its checks and balances kept all varieties of living
creatures at an established relative proportion. For every salmon he
eats there are ten thousand fewer eggs for the water bugs and the
minnows who will make up the loss out of those which are left. These
embodiments of evil must be fed and grow more diligent in the search for
food, the scarcer it becomes; still man keeps on with net, and spear,
and hook, making yearly larger drafts as the human race increases and
extending his machinery as the prey diminishes; so the whole system of
nature is disarranged. The edible fishes at first diminish, then, as the
process goes on in geometrical ratio they decrease more rapidly, and the
operation becomes accelerated at every step, till the stream or lake
which once abounded with excellent fish is utterly and absolutely
denuded and left sterile, bare and unproductive. The insects have
devoured the last edible fish which man’s greediness has failed to
reach. This has happened with so many of the ponds and water courses of
our country that it is safe to say, fully one-half of the lakes, rivers
and streams throughout the older States, at least, yield nothing of food
for man.
Such a result is no trivial injury to the community. The vast extent of
these stretches of water are but little understood by the people at
large. There are in the State of New York alone six hundred and
forty-seven lakes, with an area of four hundred and sixty-six thousand
four hundred and fifty-seven acres, besides countless smaller ponds, and
miles of river and stream. Fully a quarter of a million of acres of the
public patrimony are thus allowed to go to ruin and decay for the want
of proper knowledge and a little care. It would have been easy to have
protected them; it is a far more serious matter to restore their ancient
productiveness.
Trout are found in all rivers in which salmon can hatch their young, but
as they are not necessarily migratory, they often dwell where salmon
cannot. Trout require a temperature of water never exceeding seventy
degrees. At sixty-eight degrees they begin to suffer; at seventy
degrees, unless there is a strong and broken current to give life to the
water, they die rapidly, and not one will survive a temperature of
seventy-five degrees. It is simply manifest then that the Southern and
Western rivers are not generally inhabitable for trout or salmon. Trout
may be found in the head waters of such as rise in the Alleghany range
of mountains, but salmon can exist in none of them. So also with the
sluggish, muddy rivers of Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Missouri and the vast
central region of our continent. Throughout the entire section between
the Alleghanies and Lake Superior and the Northern Mississippi, except
in Northern Michigan, no trout are found, and then again not till you
come to the Rocky Mountains. Trout and salmon, except in the matter of
migration, are similar in their habits. The eggs of either may be
hatched in the same boxes, with the same water, in about the same time,
and under the same treatment.
When we speak of the temperature of a pond or river, allowance must be
made for springs to which fish will have recourse, precisely as men
perishing in a room for air, would put their mouths to a knot hole to
breathe. If there are springs enough, trout will live in waters the body
of which reaches a higher temperature than seventy-five. So also, a
strong rush of water as with a cataract or rapids, will enable them to
endure greater heat than they could otherwise stand. Still it is not
safe to subject any of the eastern salmon or trout family to a permanent
temperature higher than sixty-five degrees. Salmon trout suffer most
and die the first, at least when they are confined in a limited space
with a small flow of water.
The first point in fish culture is to obtain the spawning fish in proper
condition, for if the eggs are not mature or ripe, as it is usually
called, not only are they useless, but the effort to extract them will
kill the parent. Fish breeders, who make the cultivation of trout a
business, and there are many in this country, keep on hand in suitable
ponds a supply of large fish. These are taken from the rivers, which
they are ascending to spawn, and are kept over from year to year.
Connected with the ponds in which they are confined, is a raceway, or
long narrow trough which has a gravelled bottom, is covered with boards
to exclude intrusive eyes, and in every way is made as attractive a
nesting spot to the fish as possible. Into this they will proceed of
themselves when they are ready to perform their allotted act of
reproduction, and the breeder awaiting his opportunity, places a net at
the mouth of the race and frightening them in, selects such as are ready
for manipulation.
When in a perfectly ripe condition, the eggs lie free in the ovaries in
the abdomen, and may be extruded by a gentle pressure downward along the
sides of the fish. They are caught in a basin and are vitalized by
coming in contact with the milt from the males, for the fish, male and
female, are stripped indiscriminately into one common receptacle.
Formerly, the practice obtained of having this basin full of water,
under the idea that such arrangement more nearly reproduced the natural
conditions, but subsequent discoveries led to a change of this method.
The ova are fertilized by the spermatozoa of the milt entering through
the micropyle, and it was ascertained that these spermatozoa, little
tadpoles as they appear to be under the microscope, were not fond of
water, and although very active when first emitted, soon perished in it.
They retained their vitality much longer when dropped among the ova in a
comparatively dry state, and this is the method universally pursued at
present. The result of the change was very great; on the earlier plan
not more than one egg in three or four was vitalized, whereas now, fully
ninety-eight per cent. are made capable of producing young.
In selecting a place for trout hatching, it is essential to have one
where the water is at an even low temperature, near to the springs if
possible, and where there is absolute security from muddy drainage or
overflow from rains. The shape of ponds is not important, if the water
is abundant and cold enough.
It is best, if possible, to have ponds so arranged that they can be
entirely drained. This is necessary, sometimes, for cleaning or
repairing them, and changing the fish from one pond to another. If the
slope of the ground is sufficient to permit of such an arrangement, it
will often save much labor in pumping or bailing. The drain pipe may be
of pump logs, tile or pipe of any kind, and should be fixed in the
lowest part of the bottom, or as near it as the level of the ground will
allow. Still better would be a regular flume reaching from the bottom of
the pond to the top. A bulkhead may be put in to raise the water as high
as may be required, and a wire screen the whole size of the flume set a
short distance in front of the bulkhead. This large screen has an
additional advantage, as the larger the screen the less liable it is to
clog up with leaves and moss, and the greater will be the volume of
water passing through it.
Screens may be made of common wire painted with tar, or of galvanized
iron wire. The last is the best, as it will last longest in proportion
to its cost. The screens for keeping the small fry should be of fourteen
threads to the inch, and for one year old fish five or six threads to
the inch. Incline the screens at an angle of forty-five degrees, the top
being farthest down stream. By inclining the screens in this manner, a
greater surface is exposed to the water, than if they were placed
perpendicularly. The sockets should be so made that the screens will fit
tightly, and yet be easily taken out to clean.
A very good screen for two and three-year-olds can be made from strips
of lath, planed, and nailed to a strong frame, with quarter-inch
openings between them. Or, what is better, the slats should be at least
four inches wide, so that if a leaf strikes against them, it will catch
without obstructing the flow of water and lie flat against a single
slat, or, if it reaches over the edge, it will be carried through by the
current striking upon one end. It cannot lap around the slat as it would
if it were smaller. As for the width of the slats from one another, the
point to be guarded against is the fish running their heads through far
enough to strike their eyes which will produce blindness. The distance
they are to be apart will depend consequently, mainly on the size of the
heads of the fish, and as fish grow at different rates of speed, it will
not do to go merely by their age, but for fair sized fish an opening of
about five-eighths of an inch will answer. This refers to the upper
screen, the lower screen, that at the foot of the pond, may be larger,
as the fish are more cautious about descending where they cannot see
their way.
The proportion of males to females in a pond should be about one-half.
Not so many are necessary to fecundate the eggs, and it would be an
advantage in one way to have fewer, since then there would not be so
much fighting in choosing partners, and as all the females do not spawn
at once, one male would be enough to serve several females; but, on the
other hand, the males seem to run out of milt before the females get
through laying their eggs, and towards the close of the season it is
often difficult to obtain males with milt enough to fecundate the eggs;
so that it seems better to have in the pond an equal number of males and
females, thereby giving more chance of saving some of the milt till the
last of the season. The males are very amorous, and will pair again and
again. It very often happens, that some of them die from the exhausting
effects of the season.
The trout will not spawn in the ponds where the bottom consists of large
stones or weeds; but if there is sand or gravel anywhere on the bottom
of the ponds, they will spawn on it. Therefore be careful to have only
the raceway, where the water enters, covered with gravel. In October
this may be washed and cleaned from the weeds which will have grown in
it during the year. As soon as the fish are ready to spawn, they will
ascend from the ponds into the raceway, seeking a place to nest. Then
they are ready to be taken out and the spawn expressed. At the entrance
of the raceway, there should be grooves to receive a frame, on which is
tacked a net of coarse bagging about eight or ten feet long. One corner
of this bag should be narrowed, left unsewn, and tied with a string,
like the mouth of a meal sack. The race should be covered over in
spawning time, as the fish will come under the cover better and are not
so likely to be frightened by any one passing. If there are fifteen
hundred or two thousand fish in the pond, the net may be used every day
in the height of the season, and when the fish become scarce, once in
two or three days.
Indications of spawning having been observed, the covers are put on the
races, and as soon as there are fish in the raceway, the net is gathered
up in one hand and the frame held in the other, in such a position as to
be put in the grooves as quickly as possible, so as to let none of the
fish escape from the race. Go quietly to the spot, and do not walk down
the raceway to get to it, but approach from one side and put the net in
the grooves as quickly as you can. The water running down will swell the
net out to its full length. The covers may be then removed, and with a
stick you may frighten the fish down from the head of the raceway into
the net. As soon as they are all in, the frame may be lifted out of the
water, and the fish are then enclosed in the bag. A tub of water should
be previously brought near the spot, and the end of the net can be
lifted into the tub and untied, when the fish will all fall into the tub
without trouble. Coarse cloth is better for the purpose than netting, as
it can be more easily tacked to the frame, does not hurt the fish so
much, and lasts longer; besides, the water swells it out and holds it
open for the fish to run in better than it would a net, and the fish not
seeing you through the cloth as they would through an open mesh, are not
scared, and do not try to run back up the race.
The fish being now in the tub, must be taken to the hatching house
without any delay. There are probably in the tub some fifteen or twenty
fish, and all the operations must be conducted as quickly as possible,
so that they will not die in the small quantity of water to which they
are confined. So long as the fish lie quiet in the bottom of the tub,
there is sufficient air in the water to sustain them, but as soon as
they come to the surface and try to leap out, it is a sign that the air
is nearly exhausted and the water should be renewed. They will also open
their mouths wide, just as a person would when gasping for air. Trout
will die in a tub out of which the oxygen has been exhausted by their
breathing, more quickly than they would die in a cloudy day if out of
the water entirely.
A fire may be made in the hatching-house to warm your fingers, which
will probably get cool while engaged in this operation. A six-quart
milk-pan is to be provided, if you have many fish, and also another tub
of water, into which to put the fish after they are deprived of their
spawn. Select a fish, and holding it over the milk-pan, which has been
dipped in water to wet it, rub it gently with the fore-finger and thumb,
from the pectoral fins to the vent. A little experience will show how
this is to be done. If the fish is ripe, a few drops of pearly-colored
milt, or orange-hued eggs, will be forcibly expressed in the pan. If the
milt is not of this color, it shows that the milt is not good, and
another male must be taken, and treated in a similar manner. The female
must be pressed more slowly and oftener than the male. If the eggs are
not ripe, by passing the hand lightly over the belly, you will feel them
beneath, hard, like shot. In that case put the fish back into the pond,
for the eggs to ripen. When the eggs are ripe, the belly will be soft
and flabby, and the eggs beneath the skin feel loose and change their
position at the touch. The operation must be continued until the fish
are emptied of eggs and milt. The eggs in the pan may, at intervals, be
gently stirred by moving the pan; this is to change the position of the
eggs, so as to be sure that all come in contact with the milt, and when
the operation is completed, a half-pint of water is poured on them and
the pan set in one of the hatching troughs through which the water is
running; this will keep the eggs up to the proper temperature, and
prevent a sudden change when they are transferred to the trough. The
eggs will now agglutinate or stick to the pan, and to each other, for a
little while.
The fish must be grasped by the head, if you are right-handed, with the
right hand, and by the tail, or rather the lower part of the body, with
the other hand, and held over the pan with the belly near the bottom of
the pan. As soon as the fish is quiet, the right hand may be gently
slipped down from the head, and the fore-finger and thumb used to press
the belly. The fish still being held by the tail, and lower part in the
left hand, and partly supported, perhaps, by the sleeve of the coat, or
by the bare arm, and the remaining fingers of the right hand. The pan
should be elevated at one side, during the operation of taking the
spawn, by standing it on a block half an inch thick, and enough water
will drip from the fish so that by tilting and shaking it, the milt can
be brought in contact with the eggs.
After stripping a female once she should be returned to the tub from
which she was taken, and should be stripped again after a short time,
during which other fish are being handled. This is to get the last egg
from her, and if it is not done a few will remain and she will go on
the spawning beds to deposit them as if she had a full supply. If she is
cleaned entirely, she will not bother herself or her owner about the
matter again that season. The California mountain trout retain their
eggs and milt with more determination than our brook-trout, and must be
humored like a cow that will not give down her milk to any one but the
creature for which nature intended it. After the trout are handled they
are returned to different tubs, according to their sizes, as this is the
occasion to sort them.
Twenty to twenty-five minutes having now elapsed since the pan of eggs
was set in the trough, gently tip up the pan. If the eggs are loose and
roll separately as you move it, they are ready for subsequent
operations; if not yet loose, let them remain a while longer. Pour off
the dirty water until only sufficient is left to cover the eggs. If this
is done very gently, the eggs, although very light, will remain at the
bottom, as they are somewhat heavier than water; then sink the pan into
the water, at the same time tipping it, and take it half full of water.
The influx of water will wash the eggs around somewhat, and dilute the
dirty water remaining in the pan. This is to be poured off, as before,
and the operation repeated, until the water looks perfectly clear. There
will be some dirt and droppings of the trout still left, which can be
carefully picked out with the nippers. If an egg should happen to be
broken, while being taken from the trout, every vestige of it should be
carefully removed, as the slimy, sticky contents will get on the other
eggs and kill them. The eggs are now ready to be placed in the trough,
as soon as you shall have raised the water in the nest to which you wish
to transfer them, by placing a strip across the trough. Then sink the
pan gently to the edge in the water of the trough, at the same time
tipping the pan, so that the water in the trough and in the pan shall
come together with as little current as possible. Then the edge of the
pan may be sunk into the water, and by tipping the pan a little more,
the eggs will flow out without injury. By moving the pan while the eggs
are running out, they may be spread uniformly over the bottom. If they
fall in a heap, take the bearded end of a feather, and move the water
with it in the direction you wish the eggs to go, and they will follow
the current thus created. This may be done without touching the eggs
with the feather. Distribute the eggs as evenly as possible over the
surface of the nest. Where they are placed upon wire sieves, these may
be moved and shaken under water, so as to distribute the eggs evenly.
The strip which was placed across the trough to raise the water, should
then be removed. Care must be taken that it be not removed so suddenly
as to cause a rush of water, which would carry most of the eggs away
with it. Raise the strip a little way from the bottom, so as to let the
water run out gradually, and when it is very nearly or altogether at the
proper level, the strip may be removed entirely. Those who have a
nursery attached to the troughs, place the earliest eggs in the lower
end of the trough, and keep placing them toward the top, so that the
fish which are first hatched can run first into the nursery without
disturbing the others. About ten thousand may be placed in each nest
eighteen inches by fifteen inches.
If the eggs have been received from a trout breeder, they should be left
in the packages in which they have been sent until the troughs are
ready for them. Persons will sometimes take the tin boxes containing the
eggs out of the sawdust in which they were packed, and set them in the
water of their troughs, with the idea perhaps of getting the eggs in the
box to the same temperature as the water before unpacking them. This
will surely kill the eggs in a few hours. Leave them in the original
package until a few hours before you are ready to place them in the
troughs. Then take out the tins and set them over or near the troughs,
which will reduce or raise the temperature enough. Then empty the box
into a tin pan full of water taken from the trough, pick out as much
moss as you can readily with your fingers or nippers, and wash off the
rest in the manner shown in directions for washing eggs hereafter.
The eggs are placed on trays made of wire cloth stretched on wooden
frames. Each tray is twenty-seven inches long by fourteen inches wide,
and will hold in a layer, one deep, six thousand two hundred and
seventy-two salmon trout eggs. Instead of using only one layer of these
trays, it has been the practice of late years to use four layers in the
upper sections and five in the lower sections.
If only a few eggs are to be hatched (say eight or ten thousand) no
hatching house is necessary. The troughs may be placed in the open air,
in any convenient place, and covered with a wire screen, to keep out
rats, mice and ducks. A light board cover must then be laid over them,
to shed the rain and snow and keep the eggs from exposure to the
sunlight. A hatching house is much more comfortable to work in. A stove
may be put in it and a fire started occasionally for warming one’s
fingers, but it is not needed for hatching purposes, as spring water in
these latitudes is warm enough. The house may be constructed of rough
boards, or as expensively as you choose, but care should be taken to
have a water-tight roof, as drops of water leaking through and falling
into the troughs will kill the eggs underneath. Its size must be
regulated by the number and extent of the troughs.
The windows in a hatching house should be few in number and provided
with curtains or shutters, as the sun shining upon the spawn will kill
it. Not that a few minutes’ exposure to the rays of the sun will hurt
the eggs, but a few hours’ exposure certainly will. Perhaps it would be
well to have the windows, if possible, made on the north side of the
hatching house, into which the sun will not shine in the winter season.
Keep the hatching house clean. In fact cleanliness is one of the
cardinal virtues to the trout raiser. He should have a clean house,
should work with clean hands, and have all his pans, spoons and utensils
of every sort free from grease and dirt.
The troughs should be made of seasoned timber, one and a half inch
thick. They should be six inches deep and about fifteen inches wide,
inside measurement. It would be better, perhaps, if the troughs were
eight or nine inches deep, because then the water could be raised higher
over the young trout after they are hatched out. The difficulty in
making them so deep is that when the sides of the trough are made so
wide, they are apt to warp or stretch apart at the top, and must be
stayed in some way; for instance, by strips nailed across. But the
cleaner the trough is of all strips, elbows, or grooves, the better. The
troughs are divided into squares or nests by cross strips set on the
bottom at intervals of eighteen inches. These strips may be made of
half-inch stuff and cut two inches in width. There is no necessity for
nailing them to the bottom; fit them in accurately and set them edgeways
at intervals of eighteen inches. As they do not need to be removed
often, it is better to make them fit tightly. Other strips of the same
stuff must be provided, to fit upon these and made wide enough to raise
the water within an inch of the top of the trough; as these need to be
often moved, they must be made loose enough to take out, and yet fit
accurately enough to raise the water over them when they are put in. New
wood under the action of water develops a slimy sap, therefore it is
necessary to paint the troughs with hot coal tar mixed with enough
turpentine to thin it to about the consistency of paint. The troughs
should have an inclination of about one inch in eight feet--just enough
to let the water ripple gently over the cross strips. They should not be
longer than twenty feet, or the air in the water will be exhausted
before the water reaches the end of the trough. There is more danger of
this after the eggs are hatched out and the troughs are full of young
fish. If possible, the hatching house should be so far below the level
of the spring from which its supply of water is derived, as to allow the
troughs to be raised two or three feet from the floor.
The filter is a box six feet long by one and a half feet wide and one
and one-half feet deep; in which four or five flannel screens can be
placed through which to filter the water before it passes into the
troughs. The coarsest and cheapest red flannel is the best. It will rot
and must be renewed once or twice in a season. Red flannel will last
twice as long as any other. The flannel should be tacked on frames
running in grooves set at an angle of forty-five degrees (the top down
stream), so as to expose as much surface as possible to the water.
Sediment falling on the egg keeps the water off and destroys its life as
effectually as if buried in the mud. If sediment falls upon the eggs it
may be removed by gently agitating the eggs with a feather, or better
still, by creating a current in the water with a feather.
From the filter the water runs into the distributing trough or pipe,
which runs along the head of all the hatching troughs. The water may be
let into the hatching troughs by faucets, or through holes cut into the
trough. These holes should be covered with netting, or the young fish
will run up out of the troughs into the filter, or coarse gravel may be
heaped up at the head of the trough through which the water will run,
but through which the young fish cannot work their way. The supply of
water for one trough should be equal to that coming through a
three-fourth-inch hole with three inches head; just enough to make a
gentle ripple over the cross-pieces. Be careful to get the troughs level
crossways, and the strips true, so that when the water is running it
will form an equal current over every part of each strip along the whole
length of the trough. The length of time required to hatch out the eggs
depends upon the temperature of the water. A general rule sufficiently
accurate for all practical purposes is this: At fifty degrees trout eggs
will hatch out in fifty days, each degree colder takes five days longer,
and each degree warmer five days less. The difference, however,
increasing as the temperature falls, and diminishing as it rises. The
best temperature for hatching is between thirty-five and forty-five
degrees.
After the eggs have lain in the water from fifty to seventy-five days,
according to the temperature, the trout will begin to make their
appearance, the egg appears to be endowed with life, and the motions of
the trout inside “kicking” against the shell to force a way out can be
plainly perceived without the use of a microscope. At length the trout
forces his way through, head first or tail first, those that hatch head
first always dying, however, and the useless shell floats away down
stream. The trout is then about one-half inch long, and the body proper
as thin as a needle; the most prominent features being a pair of eyes,
huge in comparison with the rest of the body, and a sac nearly as large
as the egg. This sac is attached to the belly of the fish, and contains
food, which the fish gradually absorbs. If the fish are hatched in fifty
days, the sac lasts about thirty, if in seventy days, about forty-five.
At this period of their lives they will work down into the crevices of
the gravel and along the sides of the troughs and stay there, nature
seeming to give them the instinct at this weak and defenceless period of
their lives, when they are burdened with a load which they can hardly
carry, to get out of sight and out of the way of harm.
The most critical period in the life of a trout commences when the
umbilical sac is absorbed. More, perhaps, die from the time they begin
to feed until they are six months old, than at any other time. In
consequence many different plans for nurseries have been suggested and
used. The fry require a largely increased supply of water, but where
only a moderate number is to be raised, in place of erecting other and
wider troughs or boxes for nurseries, the better plan is to put only a
few eggs, say five hundred, into each square or nest of the hatching
trough. The square is then large enough with the water raised to keep
the trout well for a month or two after they commence feeding, when they
may be transferred into the first or upper pond.
The fry are removed from the troughs into the pond by the use of a small
net. Take them upon this, a few at a time, and put them into a pan of
water; they will swim off the net and you may draw it from under them.
In the pan they may be carried, a thousand at a time, to the pond in
which you wish to place them. Put them into still water; they will
settle down on the bottom and remain there for some hours, then they
will begin to explore their new quarters, and in a few days will become
thoroughly habituated to the place.
The best food for trout fry is raw liver, chopped as fine as possible,
and then rubbed through a screen or sieve with a flat stick. It must be
reduced to the consistency of pulp, and contain no strings or gristle. A
chopping machine is made for chopping hash or sausage, and either that,
or a couple of sharp knives are used to chop the liver. What is used is
mixed with water so as to reduce it to about the thickness of cream. A
teacupful of this mixture will feed a hundred thousand fish when they
first begin to feed. The best way to feed them is to take a case-knife,
dip it in the food and “slirt” off what adheres into the troughs; a very
simple way, but one answering all practical purposes. Care should be
taken not to feed too much, else the surplus food will remain on the
bottom, and decaying there foul the trough. The reason of the difficulty
in raising young fish appears to be that they are literally starved to
death. The food which we can give them is not natural to them, it is
often given in such coarse pieces that they cannot take it, and
sometimes, through the carelessness of a hired hand, they are neglected
two or three days at a time.
Young salmon, young salmon trout, California mountain trout, and above
all young California salmon are larger, have stronger appetites, and
will accept coarser food. For them, although at first the liver should
be made as fine as for trout, when they are a few weeks old it will be
hardly necessary to dilute it at all, and in the course of a few months
they will not only take the larger pieces, often tearing them apart, but
will scorn the finer portion. At one time sour milk was almost
exclusively used for feeding young fish, but it has been given up. Other
foods have been tried, but with no better success. The fish will not
thrive on any of them as well as they do on liver, and do not thrive on
that as well as if it were a natural food. Near the salt water, where
soft clams can be obtained, they are used in place of liver.
As they grow older, other things may be substituted or may be added to
it as a change. They are fond of the roe of other fish, of the spawn of
the horse-foot or king-crab; of fish itself, and when they are large
enough to eat minnows, no better food can be given them. Liver is too
expensive when it has to be used alone for grown fish, and beef lights
are usually added to it or used in place of it in a measure. It is
miserable food, however, much of it passing through the stomachs of the
trout and salmon wholly undigested and collecting in the bottom of the
ponds. It injures the digestive organs and must be deleterious to the
health of the fish. Its only recommendation is that it is cheap. Maggots
are bred on spoilt meat, hung over the ponds, and as they fall off and
drop into the water are readily devoured, and make excellent food. Or a
piece of spoilt meat may be placed in a deep bottle like a preserving
bottle, and the flies that will collect in immense numbers during summer
may be caught and emptied into the water. This trap will take many times
its bulk of flies being kept set all the time and emptied when any one
is passing it. Flies are probably the best food that can be given to
trout.
Shad eggs differ essentially from trout eggs and require wholly
different manipulation. They are much smaller and lighter. If a trout or
salmon egg is dropped into water it sinks at once to the bottom, but a
shad egg will almost float, and has but little more specific gravity
that the water itself. Shad eggs are less than half the size of trout
eggs, and require as their best condition for hatching a temperature of
from sixty-five to seventy-five degrees. They will hatch at a lower
temperature, but in such cases mature slowly, while eighty degrees of
heat is as much as they can endure. When experiments were first made in
their artificial propagation, they were placed in ordinary trout
troughs, and much trouble was found in their management. If a current of
water was turned on to the same extent as with trout, they all washed
over the end of the troughs, while if the supply was diminished so that
they retained their places, they died of suffocation. It was only after
many different devices had been tried that the proper invention was
discovered--a simple box with the bottom knocked out and replaced by a
wire gauze netting. This box is suspended by floats of wood nailed on
the sides, so that the bottom is presented at an angle to the current,
the degree of inclination being determined by the velocity of the
current. The water striking against the screen enters the minute
interstices, and lifting the eggs, keeps them in gentle motion like the
bubbles of air in a pot of moderately boiling water. All that is
necessary is to attach these boxes one behind the other in a long row,
anchor them in the river, and fill them with impregnated spawn, and the
work is done. The continuous motion of the water passing around each egg
and holding it suspended, aerates it perfectly and makes its hatching a
certainty. Hardly one per cent. of healthy eggs fail to hatch, and while
the process is going on hardly any care or attention is required. Fish
and eels cannot enter the boxes to prey, nor can the eggs be driven out
by the water, and lost.
In the artificial manipulation of shad the parents are taken in seines
from their spawning beds. The haul is made at night, at which time only
can ripe fish be found in any considerable number. The captured fish are
thrown indiscriminately into a boat and are stripped at once as they die
quickly. They are afterwards sold in the markets. The eggs, which are
caught in a pan with a little water in it, after being allowed to stand
for a few minutes until impregnation is complete, which is signified by
their swelling in size and reducing the temperature of the water some
ten degrees, are poured into the hatching boxes and left to themselves.
Nothing more is required. In twenty-four hours the black eyes of the
young fry will be visible through the shell, and in from three to ten
days they will be hatched.
Black bass is one of the most prolific varieties of our fresh-water
fish. Their natural increase is so great and their growth so rapid, that
it has never been an object to fish culturists to attempt their
artificial propagation. When the spawning season draws near, they
select, guided by natural instinct, with great care for the purpose of
propagation, certain portions of the river having a pebbly or gravelly
bottom. From these they remove carefully all sediment, weeds, and
sticks. This work completed, leaves a clear bright space in the bottom
of the river, circular in form, and having a diameter of about three
feet. These beds are readily distinguished by the casual observer from
the ordinary bottom of the river by their brightness, the gravel having
the appearance of being washed or scoured. When the parent fish are
ready to spawn, the female goes upon this prepared bed and deposits her
spawn in a glutinous band or ribbon, running in various directions
across the bed. She is followed by the male who impregnates the eggs by
the expression of his milt.
Their care of the young (the exercise of which is peculiar to the bass,
sunfish, and catfish), taken in connection with the fact that a large
pair of bass will deposit twenty thousand eggs, will give some idea of
their fertility. Possibly the fish are capable of reproduction when two
years old, having at that time attained the extraordinary length of
eight or nine inches, but this is mere conjecture, based more
particularly upon our knowledge of the size and weight of the fish at
that age. They frequently attain the weight of five and six pounds; in
rare instances seven and eight. They are unsurpassed in flavor by any of
the perch family.
The black bass loves bright, pure, lively water, not as cold as the
trout streams of our spring-producing hills and mountains, but free from
foul matters held suspended in it, and with motion either of current or
from the winds. It deposits its eggs on rocky or pebbly ledges. The
parents guard and protect their nests till the young are hatched, and
even watch over the latter till they can take care of themselves. The
fish generally selected for transfer are from one to three years old,
measuring from three to twelve inches in length. Fish of this size are
not only more numerous, but they bear transportation better, and are
more readily acclimated than when larger. They are moved with a great
deal of difficulty in hot weather, especially when the journey requires
more than twelve or fifteen hours; but with care and skill no serious
loss need take place.
The implements of the fish-culturist are few and simple. A few feathers
may be kept on hand to use in spreading the eggs when placing them in
the troughs, in collecting them for packing, and moving them in the
search after dead eggs. Nippers made of wire or some elastic wood, like
red cedar, bent or cut into the shape of the letter U, elongated to
about six inches, and with loops of wire at the ends about the eighth of
an inch wide, will hold an egg without trouble. A small homœopathic
phial is used to examine the eggs. The manner of its use is, to fill it
with water, put in the eggs to be examined, cork it, hold it up before
the window in a horizontal position, and with your microscope look up
through the side of the phial. This brings the egg which lies at the
bottom of the glass within the focus of the microscope, and the water
does not distort its shape. The microscope need not be very strong; one
magnifying eight or ten diameters is amply sufficient. A small net will
be of use in removing the young fish and any refuse in the water from
the troughs; it should be about six inches in diameter, in the shape of
the letter D, with the handle on the middle of the bend. It is very
easily made by bending a wire in the desired shape, and twisting the two
ends together for a handle. Thin gauze of some kind, like bobinet,
should be spread over the wire so tightly that the middle of the net
shall hang only a half inch below the level. An iron spoon, well tinned
or silvered, is used to remove the eggs. Some six-quart tin milk-pans
will be necessary, for a variety of purposes. Eggs may be counted most
easily by measuring them. For this purpose take any small glass, such as
a very small tumbler, for instance, count out five hundred or a thousand
eggs, and with a file make a mark upon the glass as high as they reach,
and the measure is always ready to your hand.
A watering pot with a fine rose spout is used to wash sediment from the
eggs on the sieves, and a broom of twigs is used to brush the screens of
wire.
One of the most curious and interesting results of fish-culture has been
the production of hybrids, some of which were reproductive and have thus
created new species. Strange as it may seem, these experiments have
rarely been wholly abortive; no matter how dissimilar the families, the
eggs have been impregnated often to a large percentage, and have
hatched. The following varieties have been crossed:
FEMALE. MALE.
Salmon-trout with White-fish.
“ “ “ Brook-trout.
Brook-trout “ Fresh-water Herring.
“ “ “ California Salmon.
“ “ “ Mountain-trout.
Shad “ Striped Bass.
“ “ Herring.
It is observable of all hybrids that they are shy and wild; more so
usually than either of their parents, and that in appearance they favor
their larger parent. The cross between the brook-trout and lake-trout
has been repeated from year to year, till fish which are one-eighth
salmon-trout and seven-eighths brook-trout have been produced which it
is hoped will have the size and toughness of the mother, with the beauty
and gameness of the father.
These experiments commenced with a cross of the brook-trout and
California salmon, which had an interesting and instructive termination,
and prepared the way by its failure for subsequent successes.
In September, 1879, the young of the brook-trout and California salmon
were seen to be maturing their eggs. This was the first time in the
history of fish culture that hybrids gave evidence of breeding. It is
asserted that among animals, mules are occasionally known to produce
young, but this is a most unusual exception to a general rule. No more
was expected from the experiments in crossing varieties than the
production of combinations which might be valuable in themselves, like
the capons among fowls, or the mules among draught animals, but which
must of necessity be purely ephemeral, and perishing with the lives of
the individuals. But when these hybrid trout-salmon were opened and
found to contain eggs quite large and well forward in maturity, it
seemed possible that new species might be created and made permanent.
The eggs were already larger than the mature eggs of the trout, although
it was then early in the season, and seemed perfectly healthy. As time
passed the parents were watched with care, and were soon seen to be
going into the spawning-race. They apparently made all their
preparations for spawning, began digging their nests, stayed about them,
and proceeded in the regular way, except that they were never in pairs,
but always single. This was not natural, and led to a careful
examination of them individually. After examining some fifty out of the
sixty, the conclusion was reached that they were all females, which
eventually turned out to be the case. This was in the latter part of
November, 1879. Some dozen male brook-trout were then placed among the
hybrids, to see if they would induce the latter to spawn. Everything
soon appeared favorable for this result, the trout paired with the
trout-salmon, they entered the race-way together, and occupied
themselves with parental duties, but no results were perceived. For some
reason the spawn was not deposited. Then some of the fish were selected
to be stripped by hand, and were found to be ripe, but the eggs were all
crushed in passing from them. The vent of the ovaries or ovaduct was too
small to allow the eggs, which had delicate shells, to pass. Attempts
were then made to enlarge the vent, and some thousands of eggs were
finally obtained in this way uninjured. To impregnate these the milt of
the male trout was used. The parent fish were left in their pond and
seemed to be uneasy. They were doubtless incommoded by the eggs which
they could not pass, and moved about slowly with their heads towards the
bottom, their tails upward, and their bodies at an angle to the surface.
The eggs which it was hoped might be impregnated by hand, were retained
until January 25, 1880, when it was found they were unimpregnated and
dead, and they were thrown away.
Thus two extraordinary facts were ascertained, one that the eggs may be
too large for extrusion in case the male parent is the larger variety of
fish, and the other that the entire body of one hatching may be of a
single sex as in this case when all were females, and in the case of the
shad and herring in the Hudson River, which are all said to be males. It
was on these two discoveries that subsequent improvements were founded.
It is not yet positively determined that these cross-breeds will
procreate their species in a natural way, nor even that they will be the
improvement, which has been hoped, but that they can be bred
artificially there is no further doubt.
An indirect result of fish-culture has been the introduction of foreign
fish into home waters. The German carp has been brought to America, and
has increased and multiplied vastly, and been found well adapted to
certain waters, which are not valuable for finer fish. In dull, muddy,
small ponds, they have not only lived, but they have grown to a
remarkable size. We have also received some German trout, which hatched
and grew well, and which promise finely for the future. Then we have
sent our black-bass to Europe as well as our trout, the California trout
and salmon. We have acclimated in California the Eastern shad, and
imported from California the trout and salmon of that country. This
interchange has been mutually advantageous and promises to be much more
so in the future. The results of fish-culture have indeed far exceeded
the most sanguine hopes of those who first took it up, and at present
there seem to be no limits to its beneficial effects. The time will
surely come when the streams, which have been so long utterly
depopulated of their natural inhabitants will once more be restocked and
yield as abundantly as ever. This has already happened with the
Connecticut River, which from having been almost exhausted, has been so
successfully restocked that it produced in one year more shad than had
ever been caught from it since records had been kept. The Hudson River
had been also rendered nearly worthless as a shad river when
fish-culture was first applied to it, the nets were being taken up and
the fisheries abandoned, the price of even small shad had risen so as to
exclude them from all but the tables of the rich, whereas now the yield
is nearly as numerous as ever, and much larger fish are taken. So while
neglected Southern rivers are exhausted, the Northern ones are being
replenished. The same will follow with the fresh waters. If the trout
brooks have become too warm from the destruction of the forests, other
varieties, such perhaps as the California trout will be substituted.
There are millions of just such streams and ponds, which are now nearly
valueless, but which could be made quite as valuable as the same amount
of land. These will yet all be replenished till the streams and ponds
will come to be regarded as the most valuable part of the farm or
country place, and millions of property will be added to the wealth of
the country.[18]
[Illustration: LARGE-MOUTHED BLACK BASS. (_Grystes Salmoides_)]
[Illustration: FLIES.]
CHAPTER XXVII.
FLIES AND KNOTS.
It is generally considered that fly-making cannot be taught by written
instruction, but this depends somewhat on the intelligence of the
scholar, who must not undertake to conceive the result before he has
waxed his thread, but should be content to follow the directions word by
word. At all events there is something that the experienced, and an
immense deal that the partially instructed beginner may add to his store
of knowledge, and if the following directions will not make a novice
perfect, they may aid him when he has had a few personal lessons. To tie
a fly, the gut should be singed in a candle or bitten at one end, and
the hook and thread waxed to insure the hook’s not coming off, which,
when a fine fish has it in his mouth, is a heart-rending casualty. Take
a few turns with the thread on the shank of the bare hook, nearly to the
head, then applying the gut, whip it firmly on by working back to the
bend; under the last turns at the bend insert whisks for the tail
dubbing, floss or herl for the body, and tinsel if desired. The floss,
silk and dubbing are generally spun or twisted in with the thread, and
then wound back toward the shoulder, but they may be wound on before,
with, or after the thread. Care must be taken that the turns at the
bend be firm, and when the material is carried back, the body is
finished with a couple of turns of the silk, a hackle is then introduced
under them and firmly secured. Wind the hackle round the hook at the
place where it is inserted, and when it is sufficiently thick, and the
fibres which constitute the legs stand out well, tie it down. Prepare
your wings by stripping off the requisite number of fibres, and tie them
on, either single or divided, and finish off. To make a buzz-fly, that
is, one with the hackles the whole length of the body instead of only at
the shoulder, insert a hackle at the bend at the same time with the body
and tail, and twist it round the body after that is put on, and fasten
it at the shoulder. The wings are sometimes laid on pointing up the
shank, and afterward bent down and brought in their places. And thus, if
any one desires, he may make a fly.
Few people in this stage of civilization dress their own trout flies,
and although skill in the art will enable you to make a better selection
in your purchases, it is rarely useful at the riverside. The better plan
is to have a great variety, keep them safe from moths by the use of a
linen bag, and fish often enough to prevent the gut’s decaying. I have
flies that have been in my possession for fifteen years, and yet seem to
be as good as ever. You would require a knapsack to keep all the
articles requisite to dress every fly, and would waste half your day in
the operation. Nor is it yet settled that by imitating the natural
insect you gain any advantage; one half the most skillful fishermen
assert that the fly, as for instance, the scarlet ibis, need resemble
nothing on earth, or in the waters under the earth, and that the
sharp-sighted fish are never deceived by thinking ours the natural
insect, but take him for some new and undescribed species. As for
myself, to use the quaint language of the editor of the “Knickerbocker,”
“sometimes I think so, and then again I don’t, but mostly I do.” On
certain occasions it would seem that the closer the imitation the
better, on others the less the similarity the greater the success. Upon
this question my friends stand like the hackle on a well-dressed fly,
“every which way.” At any rate, it is no time to be dubbing when you
ought to be fishing, and if you cast a long line and a light fly and the
fish will not rise, you may be sure they will not.
The various flies that appear upon the surface of the numerous and
varying waters of our country, from the borders of Mexico to the
confines of Labrador, would furnish the subject for an instructive and
interesting work.
The natural flies, whether hatched from the caddis at the bottom of the
streams, or from the burrows in the ground, or the knots on the limbs,
or the cocoons amid the leaves of trees, are more numerous than those of
any European country. As a class, they are larger, the ephemeræ
especially, and although often found to be similar in general
appearance, furnish many species unknown there. They have never been
properly described and classified, and no satisfactory work has been
written, at all thorough and reliable, in which an attempt is made to
record their nature and habits.
Many of them do not return every year, but seem to require several
seasons to mature, and the earliest fly of one season may not be that of
another. Every observant fisherman has noticed flies at one time that
he may not see again for a long period, and has found his imitations of
them perfectly useless.
The first tree that puts forth leaves in the spring is the maple, and
its buds are a bright scarlet. As they drop into and are swept along the
surface of the water by the wind, the fish seize them, no doubt either
decoyed by their appearance or attracted by insects that may be
concealed upon or within them. The scarlet ibis resembles these buds
nearer than any other known thing, and is probably mistaken by the fish
for them.
When commencing this work, it had been my intention not only to describe
the artificial flies in general request, but to give the habits, periods
and names of the natural ones of which they were imitations, without
which latter information the former would have been far from complete.
But the obstacles in my way were so numerous, the confusion existing as
to names, localities, and times of appearance was so utter, the
difficulty of finding any satisfactory work on the natural insects so
great, that I was almost in despair; on the point, however, of making
the attempt, rash as it appeared, I was informed that the matter had
been undertaken by a friend of mine, who is every way equal to the task.
Although much relieved, there was still something to be done to give a
general idea of the flies in use with us. On this subject, the only work
existing of any value is the supplement to Frank Forester’s “Fish and
Fishing,” written by a gentleman who is a thorough sportsman, and
alongside of whom I have often had the pleasure of casting the fly. The
directions in the body of that work itself, like many other parts of
it, are copied from the English writers, and in our waters are utterly
valueless. The author, although a splendid sportsman, was not as an
angler acquainted with our trout streams and ponds, and the contributor
of the supplement judged rather too exclusively from his experience on
Long Island.
The first and most striking difference to be observed between the
systems of the two countries is in the comparative size of the flies,
those of America, following the natural insect, being larger, and,
probably for a similar reason, gaudier. It is a remarkable fact that the
most gaudy of all, the scarlet ibis, is prominently successful alone in
the streams of Long Island and of the British Provinces. As many of the
Long Island trout yearly migrate to the sea, in which peculiarity they
resemble the fish of the latter place, it may be that this fly is only a
favorite with sea-going fish. A little tinsel wound round the body is
supposed to improve its efficiency, as some fishermen suggest from a
resemblance to the principal Winter food of the trout, the salt water
minnow.
The earliest fly on the Long Island ponds is a dark water fly, with a
brownish red body and legs, and black, filmy, transparent wings. It is
rather large, is wafted along upon and occasionally rises from the
water, and never appears in any considerable numbers. It is usually
represented by the English or female cow-dung, which, although not
similar in coloring, presents somewhat the same general appearance. The
wings, being transparent, should not be imitated with a black feather,
although I have had great success when these flies were on the water
with a fly that had black wings and a claret body and legs. The orange
dun, with a body tinged with brown, would be a good imitation.
The next natural fly, which is smaller than the last, is of a greenish
yellow, and is also caricatured by the cow-dung. But it is decidedly
recommended to make a more faithful copy, which the writer has done with
eminent success. In speaking of this matter, it is important to add that
the midges, such as the black gnat and others, are out earlier, and it
is to the larger flies alone that reference is made. The earliest of the
species mentioned appears in ordinary seasons about the first of March,
and the next about a week later. At this period, and at all periods, of
a bright day a large black gnat with black hackle, black or dark blue
body, silver tinsel at the tail, and dark wings, is usually successful.
Shortly after the greenish fly, come many others, appearing almost
together, and among them the cow-dung and the yellow sally, the latter
occasionally fairly covering the water. About this time the professor
answers well, although I have never discovered its prototype, if it has
any, and shortly afterward an unimitated brown fly, together with the
blue blow and cinnamon, and in warm weather innumerable others. In the
latter part of April and early part of May, the bushes and streams are
alive with the gay little beauties, of every color, size and shape, and
the fish make them their principal food. But the waters are growing
clear, the deception is becoming apparent to the fish’s eye, and the
insects, though in reality larger, must have more delicate substitutes.
At such times a small red bodied fly, with dun wings, has proved
extremely killing, and although large, white, gelatinous ephemeræ swim
upon the water, the midges are on quiet days the most successful; and
when the sky is bright, subdued colors are in principal demand.
In June there are prominent, among many others, the black fly, with
body, wings, legs and antennæ all of the same sable hue, busy the entire
day dancing over the water a veritable dance of death, for it is often
terminated by the fatal rush of the watchful trout; a dun fly, with
greyish dun mottled wings, grey legs, and light green body; another fly
with similar wings, but red legs, and a rich brown body--none of these
having any whisks in their tails; another beautiful and delicate yellow
fly, that appears generally in the morning and evening, and flies
heavily and slowly from place to place, till it falls suddenly, and is
forever submerged in the cruel waters. Its legs, body and wings are
yellow, the latter being the palest, and it has two short whisks and
antennæ of the same color. All the foregoing have four wings, in the
black and yellow varieties strongly reticulated, and all but the last
swim well under water. Toward night a frail whitish fly makes its
appearance still more fragile than its yellow compeer; it has two wings,
a thick body and long whisks. The eyes of the yellow and white fly are
black spots, and although I never have done much with a white fly, a
small yellowish drake was successful when the yellow flies were
abundant. A better imitation however could be made of pure yellow.
On one occasion I was struck with the fact that although I did not know
these insects were on the water, my only successful flies were a
yellowish fly, a green-bodied, dun-winged fly, and a similar fly with a
brown body, and I hit on them accidentally after trying a great
variety.
Hackles, in our Long Island ponds, are, by universal testimony, a
failure, and the palmers worthless; and throughout the breadth and
length of our country, the winged flies are vastly preferable. The
hackles and palmers are intended to represent the caterpillars, which
our fish very sensibly ignore alongside of the innumerable beautiful,
delicate and gaudy flies, and which under no circumstances are found
except in the fresh-water brooks. Through all the early Spring, the
stomachs of the trout will be found filled with the shells of the
caddis, and these, if they could be obtained, would doubtless be a
killing bait. Fortunately they cannot be, and are not to my knowledge
used here at all.
In our mountain streams the fish are generally extremely numerous,
though small, and will eagerly seize any fly presented to them, vying
with one another to be first. The following is a good assortment, and
will, in addition to those already mentioned, be sufficient for all
waters: The alder-fly, English partridge hackle, hackles of all colors,
red and black ants, the devil-fly with a yellow body, the tail of one
red and one black whisk, black hackles and red and black wings, dark
mackerel, red spinner, English blue jay, fern-fly, orange dun, the
camlets of various colors, grey, dun and black midges, the coachman, the
stone-fly, the May-flies, millers for night-work, the sand-fly, the
various other duns, the turkey brown, and a large light grey fly.
As each maker employs different colors and feathers for the same fly,
these descriptions are rather indefinite but by taking a number of
various shades, you can readily select the most effective. The
well-known flies should be dressed after Ronalds as far as practicable.
It is to be regretted that there is not more uniformity and pride in, or
practical acquaintance with, the subject among our principal
tackle-makers. With the English makers it has always been an especial
care that their flies should be dressed well and with uniformity; but
here, anything that can be palmed off on an ignorant or indulgent
public, or a barbarous country trade, is all that is desired. It is
better always to send a pattern, with instructions to copy it precisely,
and that no originality of variation will be permitted. Then, and then
only, can you obtain what you wish. So much for trout-flies.
To make a salmon-fly, the following additional directions, most of which
apply equally to carefully made trout-flies, will be found convenient.
Tie on the gut as before directed; upon reaching the bend, fasten the
spring pliers on to the thread, and do not take them off till the fly is
finished. Take two turns with the silk over a strip of tinsel, pass the
latter several times round the hook to form the tag, fasten it with the
silk and cut it off; introduce the floss for the tip, take several turns
evenly, tie it down and cut off the end; introduce the tail and then a
piece of herl, wind the herl at the root of the tail and fasten it; take
in a new piece of tinsel and a hackle by rubbing back all the fibres but
a few at the point; leave both pointing from the head. Take a small
piece of mohair between your fingers, break it over and over again into
small pieces, lengthen it out and twist it round the silk toward the
left, as otherwise it will unlay in winding; wind the silk and mohair
together round the shank to the shoulder, leave a space of bare hook
sufficient for the wings. Wind in loose coils first the tinsel and then
the hackle, and fasten both at the shoulder. Strip two wings from
feathers that have been taken from the opposite sides of the bird, place
them together, hold them firmly on the hook with the left forefinger and
thumb, and fasten them securely. Cut off the ends, insert a piece of
herl, wind it over the head and tie it down. Lay the end of the silk
back down the shank, and take three turns with the other part over silk,
hook and gut; pass the gut end through the loop three times and draw the
silk tight. Two turns of silk should hold the different parts during the
entire operation, and a couple of half hitches under the wings at the
shoulders are sometimes used to fasten off. The feathers should be mated
to make neat wings, and if they are laid right side out they will close
round the hook; if otherwise, they will stand out. Do not fail to
varnish at the head with wood varnish, or some other kind that will dry
rapidly. The hackle may be introduced at the shoulder. Where herl or
floss is used for the body, it is wound on separately from the tying
silk, which is sometimes passed in loose coils afterward. A second
hackle of a different color, or a feather wound like a hackle, may be
introduced after the first, or after the wings and before the head is
finished, and is called the legs. The wings must be tied above the
dubbing on the hook, or they are liable to turn, especially where floss
silk is used for the body.
The following is a list of Canadian salmon flies, copied from the work
on Salmon Fishing in the Provinces, edited by Colonel Alexander,
supposed to be by Dr. Adamson, with two of my own added; the latter
having been furnished by a friend of extended experience, are warranted
excellent:
No. 1. LOUISE.--An extremely beautiful fly, having wings composed of the
golden pheasant’s top-knot, breast feather and tail, with sprigs from
the green parrot, blue macaw and kingfisher; the body is of fiery brown
mohair, with gold twist; the head of orange mohair; the tail, a single
feather from the golden pheasant’s top-knot; reddish-brown hackle and
jay legs.
No. 2. EDWIN.--A much simpler fly and often equally efficacious among
the fins, the wings being composed of the golden pheasant’s tail feather
with a dash of yellow macaw; the body, yellow mohair; ribs, of black
silk; head, black mohair; tail, golden pheasant’s top-knot; hackle,
yellow; and scarlet silk tip.
No. 3. FORSYTH.--Wings of the yellow macaw, with a slight dash of
mallard wings at each side; yellow mohair body, with black ribs; head,
black; tail, golden pheasant’s top-knot; hackle, yellow, with light blue
silk tip.
No. 4. STEPHENS.--Wings of golden pheasant’s breast feather, with slight
mixture of mallard; body of reddish brick-colored silk, gold twist;
head, black ostrich; tail, golden pheasant’s top-knot; hackle, red, to
match the body; tip, blue silk.
No. 5. ROSS.--Wings of mallard and peacock’s herl; body,
cinnamon-colored silk, gold twist; no head; tail, green parrot; red and
black hackles and black tip.
No. 6. THE PARSON.--This is a beautiful and efficient fly. The wings
are mixed, and very similar to those of No. 1, but have a slight mixture
of wood duck in them; the body is of very dark claret silk, with gold
twist; head, black ostrich; tail, golden pheasant’s top-knot; hackle,
dark claret; legs, blue, with a tip of yellow and gold.
No. 7. STRACHAN.--Mixed wings, chiefly of golden pheasant’s tail, yellow
macaw and jay’s wing; body of crimson silk with gold twist; head, black
ostrich; tail, golden pheasant; black hackle, with jay’s wing legs; tip,
yellow and gold.
No. 8. LANGEVIN.--Wings, body, tail, hackle, legs, tip all yellow, made
of the dyed feathers of the white goose; the head of black ostrich, and
the twist of black silk.
No. 9. WHITCHER.--Mixed wings, of mallard and hooded merganser, the
latter being like the teal wing, only more of a yellowish green, or the
tail of the golden pheasant may be used; head, black ostrich herl; black
hackle and black mohair body, with a thin rib of silver; tip, yellow
silk; and tail from the top-knot of the golden pheasant.
No. 10. GREY FLY.--Mixed wings, of mallard, turkey, golden pheasant’s
neck and top-knot, and sprigs of blue macaw; head of black ostrich heel;
legs, carmine; grey hackle; body of a grey mohair, with silver ribs, and
tip of silver and deep orange silk; tail, mixed grey mallard and tail of
the golden pheasant.
It will be observed that the foregoing are not imitations of any natural
insect, but merely fanciful combinations of beautiful colors. The more
harmonious the tints the finer the effect. Some of them are gay flies,
gaudier than I should recommend; modest colors suit the salmon as they
do the ladies of our country. For the rivers of New Brunswick more
particularly, I would add the following, requesting the reader to bear
in mind that larger and more brilliant flies are permitted among the
rougher waters and heavier fish of the Canadas.
No. 11. NICHOLSON.--Wings mallard with sprigs of blue macaw; body,
blood-red mohair, head of black ostrich herl; hackles, one blood red and
one dark blue wound on together; gold ribs and tip; tail, mallard and
golden pheasant neck. This is one of the best flies ever cast on the
Miramichi or Nipisiquit, and is simple and inexpensive.
No. 12. CHAMBERLAIN.--Turkey wing, the lighter and darker fibres mixed,
or turkey and mallard; head, black ostrich herl; orange mohair body and
hackle, yellow legs, silver or gold ribs and tip and black silk twist;
tail of golden pheasant top-knot.
No 13. DARLING.--Wings of turkey and golden pheasant neck feather and
sprigs of blue macaw; head, black ostrich; hackles, black along the
stem, but with reddish ends; tip, orange silk; tail, golden pheasant
top-knot; thin gold ribs and tag and black mohair body.
No. 14. MAJOR.--Wings of mallard and turkey with sprigs of blue macaw;
head, claret herl; light red hackle, and orange legs; body, deep purple
mohair; tip, blue silk: tail, golden pheasant neck feathers; ribs and
tag gold tinsel.
No. 15. CAPTAIN.--Wings of turkey and golden pheasant tail and neck
feathers and sprigs of blue macaw; head claret herl; red hackle; body,
claret mohair; tip, orange silk; silver tag, gold ribs, and tail of
golden pheasant top-knot.
No. 16. CARIBOO.--Wings of turkey and mallard with sprigs of macaw, and
a few fibres from the golden pheasant’s neck; head of black ostrich
herl; claret legs; grey hackle; body of grey cariboo hair or mohair;
lower part of tip golden yellow silk, and upper part black silk; tail,
golden pheasant top-knot, and gold tag. This fly, with various
modifications, is extensively used by the resident fishermen of
Fredericton.
No. 17. EMMET.--No head; wings of black and golden pheasant neck feather
with sprigs of macaw; body, black mohair; black hackle; gold tip and
twist; a turn of black herl taken just above the tail, which is golden
pheasant crest.
No. 18. LILLIE.--Wings and tail dark grey turkey; body, mohair of the
same dull color; yellow silk tip; red hackle, and no head. This is
almost identical with the stone fly, and approximates in color to the
natural fly, and is generally dressed on a small hook.
There is no limit to the list of salmon flies that might be given;
artistic beauty is a great point to be gained, but further than that
nothing is positively ascertained on the subject. I was once visiting a
well known salmon river with fifty dozen flies loaned to me by an
excellent angler who was one of the oldest _habitués_ of the stream.
Another excellent fisherman looked over my hooks with an unapproving
air, and after my return told me that he was surprised I had taken any
fish at all, for my flies were totally unsuited to the river. It is,
however, generally conceded that different waters require different
flies, and those in vogue in Canada are much gayer than those of New
Brunswick. In Great Britain it was once the custom, as it still is in
Wales, to use sombre colors; in England and Ireland the gayest are now
the rage; perhaps it will be the same here, and in the end we may find
that handsome, gaudy feathers answer best.
The turkey wing is of various colors, but where no other specific
direction is given, the common mixture of black and brown is intended.
Some sportsmen pretend to assimilate their flies to the sand-lance,
others to the shrimp; as the salmon obtain neither in fresh water, there
is little to choose between the plans.
As will be seen, therefore, from the foregoing, salmon flies are much
more complicated than trout flies, and require more skill in their
manufacture. The wings are ordinarily made of numerous fibres,
frequently of distinct feathers, which are fastened separately upon one
another, and usually called toppings. The hook is often first tied
securely with thick silk and then varnished, while a small loop instead
of a length of gut is used. This is allowed to dry, and finer silk,
usually the color of the intended fly, is employed to tie the feathers.
Occasional fastenings may be made by taking a hitch over the whole, and
varnish is applied, especially at the head and tail. After the hook is
tied on, the silk is made fast at the bend, where the tinsel, the
whisks, the body and the hackle are inserted; the latter may, however,
be introduced after several turns have been taken with the body, and the
body may be divided into sections of various colors, in a manner that
the least practice will render easy.
It is no small matter to give a list of the requisite fly-making
materials, but the following are a few of the most important:
Silk of various colors, wax, nippers, scissors, a bench vice, picker,
spring pliers, varnish, hooks and gut, tinsel of gold and silver,
twisted and plain; hackles of all colors, feathers of the mallard, teal,
woodcock, golden, silver and argus pheasants, turkey, macaws, curlew,
ruffed grouse, ibis, blue-jay, black-bird, fresh water rail, guinea
fowl, common chicken, and any and all other birds that may come in the
angler’s way; dubbings of mohair, pig’s hair, wool, seal’s fur, rat’s,
mole’s and squirrel’s fur; floss silk of all colors, and peacock’s and
ostrich herl. Dyed feathers had better be purchased of the tackle
makers, and should include blue, purple, orange, yellow, brown, green,
crimson and scarlet hackles, and yellow wing feathers.
There is a Limerick hook now made with the shank turned over so as to
form a loop into which the gut is inserted and the trouble of tying the
gut is avoided. They have come into general use among the Irish and
Scotch fishermen, and are a great aid to the man that ties his own
flies. The gut in ordinary fly fishing wears out just above the hook, a
difficulty that is entirely removed by this improvement, and it is by no
means so ugly or ungainly as might be supposed. This is no new
discovery, but has been practised with common American hooks for a
considerable period, and might be advantageously used in many kinds of
fishing, and applied to all hooks.
Hooks are numbered in the most singular manner, no two makers agreeing,
and some indulging in remarkable eccentricities. But as Limerick hooks
are generally used for fly-making, the numbers 2, 1, 1-1/2, 0 and 2/0
will include all that is requisite. No. 1-1/2 is my favorite for
ordinary purposes, but a few 3/0 may be desirable in heavy water, with
an occasional monster for foaming rapids.
The charges for dressing trout flies in this country are exorbitant,
whereas in England they can be purchased of the best makers at from
seventy-five cents to a dollar and a half per dozen; we are charged from
a dollar and a half to three dollars, and generally furnished an
inferior article. There is an abominable article of wholesale traffic
sold for fifty cents a dozen, that is beneath any sportsman’s notice. I
have imported a great many, but it is a troublesome operation, and the
best way is to bear the imposition meekly.
The English and Irish salmon flies are, on the contrary, expensive; a
great deal of the neck and top-knot of the golden pheasant and of the
wings of the blue-jay is employed, birds which cost from ten to
twenty-five dollars a piece, and which only furnish twenty to thirty
pairs of each kind of feathers. The use, therefore, of several long
crest and neck feathers at fifty cents a pair in the wing, and five or
six from the top-knot for the tail, besides other expensive materials
and the employment of the best workmanship, will make a fly dear at the
original cost. Blacker, the great English rod and fly maker, has been
paid two guineas apiece for his finest. The reader may console himself
by remembering that salmon were taken with the fly before the golden
pheasant was heard of as one of the indispensable ingredients. A little
practice will enable the angler to make flies himself, and add to his
sport the consciousness of invention.
Except in that way, and except for salmon fishing, the sportsmen of our
country have no time to waste tying flies. The regular shops charge a
heavy profit over the amount paid the workman, and if the purchaser is
capable of telling a good fly, the best plan is to go direct to the
latter, explain what is wanted, and show an interest in the proceeding.
A half dozen of each of the foregoing specimens, firmly fastened on
strong, round, even gut, will last two months’ daily salmon fishing in
well-stocked streams. An average loss of four or five a day would be by
no means surprising, although a single one might kill a great many fine
fish. Hooks are apt to be broken at the bend by striking against a rock,
from carelessness, or the awkward handling of too long a line. If you
find a hook broken in that way, lay it primarily to this cause, and
watch the sweep of your cast.
After the fly is made, tying it on to the leader and the leader to the
line is an important matter, and as it is always desirable to put the
right knot in the right place, the following directions may do something
toward enabling one to effect that object, and after a little practice
will be found entirely intelligible. The gut lengths of the droppers
should be short, to prevent their fouling round the leader.
No. 1 and No. 2 are both good ties to fasten the leader to the line. No.
3 is a becket-hitch, and No. 4 a double becket-hitch. No. 5 is a single
water knot.
[Illustration: KNOTS.]
No. 6 is a double water knot. The latter are used for tying lengths of
gut together. But recollect that before a knot is made in gut it must be
wet, and had better be soaked for some time in warm water. In using the
double knot, the ends need not be whipped down. No. 7 shows how a dandy
fastens his droppers to the leader. No. 8 shows how a lazy man does the
same thing.
No. 10 is a reef, or square knot. No. 11 is a granny knot, and you had
better not knot that knot as a reef knot at sea. The former never slips,
and yet never jams; the latter always slips and always jams. No. 12 is a
bowline, the best knot of all.
No. 13 is a wall. No. 14, a wall and crown; follow the strands round
with the ends, and it is a double wall and crown. No. 15, a Mathew
Walker, is made by unlaying the strands a sufficient distance, and
carrying one end underneath and through its own bight, then the next
underneath through the bight of the first and its own bight, and then
the third underneath through the bight of the first and second and then
its own. No. 16 shows the first strand passed; No. 17 is the finished
knot. A diamond knot, No. 18, is made by laying the strands back along
the rope, then passing the first end over the second through the bight
of the third, the second over the third and through the first, and so on
drawing all tight. It may be crowned like a wall.
No. 19 is a sheet bend. No. 20, a studding sail bend. No. 21, a rolling
hitch. No. 22, a timber hitch. No. 23, a clove hitch. A whipping is put
on as shown by No. 24, by first passing the turns over one end, and then
the other end under the last few turns, and drawing it close. No. 25 is
called a cat’s paw. These knots will probably be sufficient without
adding the hangman’s knot, with its seven professional turns, and a
choice among them will often be found convenient, while a glance at the
cut will refresh an imperfect recollection.
In tying flies or hooks, it is well to use varnish occasionally, in fact
wherever it can be done without injuring the appearance of the colors;
no fly will last well that has not been varnished. In making the wings
of salmon flies, it is usual to put on numerous fibres, often of
different feathers, and tie them on separately. This renders the wings
more pliable, but destroys their beauty and harmony. A number of
inconsistent colors will injure the effect of one another; the contrast
between body and wings should be decided, and the unity and coherence of
the latter should be preserved. If the tip of the feather is used and
fastened by the stem, it will slip unless firmly secured. There is great
difference in the adhesion of the fibres of different feathers, but a
little practice will determine the selection.
Black bass flies are generally made with a red body, gold twist, and
wings of ibis and white, or black and white, or peacock’s herl and
white; but a beautiful and effective fly is made as follows: wings, two
plumes of the silver pheasant with two smaller ones of ibis over them;
body, blood-red mohair; furnace hackle; blue floss tip; gold tag, and
ibis tail.
In salmon fishing it is customary to use but one fly, as two
sixteen-pound fish would be troublesome to handle; but occasionally a
dropper is added at the upper end of the casting line to attract their
attention.
Three flies are sufficient for trout fishing, and are desirable,
although frequently failing to hook the fish in consequence of lying on
or close to the leader. This is in a measure prevented by short, stiff
gut lengths, but when the rises are mainly at the upper flies, many will
be missed.
In this connection it may be well to mention that coloring gut,
especially for bright, transparent waters, is an error; remember the
fish from below look at it against the sky, and will see it the plainer
the more it is colored. The less distinguishable to the angler the more
apparent it is to them. This can be proved without difficulty, by
holding against the light two strands, one plain and the other colored.
For salmon, it should, if single, be round and strong; for trout, fine
and delicate.
NOTE: Since the above was written, immense strides have been made
in this country in the manufacture of fine tackle, while the prices
of many articles have been reduced. Our rods, reels and lines are
the finest in the world, nothing equal to a split-bamboo rod or an
Imbrie reel being produced anywhere. Our lines, both for trout and
bass, combine a fineness and strength unknown even in England,
which is the birth-place and home of angling.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
INSECTS.
There is nothing more beautiful, wonderful and interesting than insect
life; there is nothing that offers a wider field for examination or
affords more gratifying results. Under the head of insects are classed,
in popular language, all the minute animals; but only those having six
legs and two antennæ, and which undergo one or more changes or
metamorphoses should be included; most of them have wings, and their
name is derived from the word _insecta_, divided, which is applied to
the divisions or articulations of their bodies. The outer part of their
body is slightly bony, and to it the muscles are attached.
Insects exist in myriads; whole families are still undescribed, and many
species unknown. Even in the old countries new discoveries are made
yearly, and in the New World it can hardly be said that anything is
authenticated on the subject. Facts concerning the commonest are most
remarkable. One class of white ants, like our southern fellow
countrymen, makes slaves of a darker race. Many beautiful flies live
only a few hours. The eyes of the common house fly are composed of
numerous surfaces or lenses, and their life, habits and instincts are a
study in themselves. Being so numerous and so nearly allied, their
classification is entirely imperfect, and like a similar attempt with
any other part of animal life, a failure. Almost every scientific writer
has invented a system of entomological distribution for himself, and
their united efforts have produced endless confusion; the arrangement
generally followed is that of Latreille, the father of modern
entomology.
Insects are by him divided into two great divisions: those that live by
chewing, _mandibulata_, and those that live by sucking, _haustellata_,
whence the name applied to some of the human family. Of the former the
beetles, _coleoptera_, are prominent, and among the latter the
butterflies, _lepidoptera_. It is to be observed that the bees, although
furnished with a sucking apparatus to collect honey, feed with
mandibles, and are in the first class.
Latreille further divides the various groups as follows; and although
English authors have made many changes, the alterations are of such
doubtful utility that the original classification will be retained.
The first class is that of insects without wings, such as the
_thysanura_, or those having a bushy tail, which are mandibulate.
Parasites or lice, and fleas, both of which are suctional, the last
having a metamorphose, but the first two not. All others have wings, but
the second class includes those that have a hard covering or case,
called an elytron, over their wings; the beetles, which have a horny
wing cover and perfect metamorphose; the _dermoptera_, which have a
horny wing cover but an imperfect metamorphose; the _orthoptera_, or
straight-winged insects, their wings folding longitudinally, and having
a leathery cover--all of which are mandibulate; and the _hemiptera_,
which have the wings half leathery and half membranous, and the mouth
suctorial, and in both of the latter the metamorphose is imperfect. In
the third class the wings are naked and alike; it includes the
_neuroptera_, or nerve-winged insects, in which the veins of the wings
are like a net; the _hymenoptera_, the wings being membranous, and
veined lengthwise--both families being mandibulate; the _lepidoptera_,
or scale-winged insects, having delicate scales on the wings--this order
is suctorial, and the entire three orders have four wings; the
_rhipiptera_, which are mandibulate and have two balances or halteres
before the wings which close like a fan, whence their name is derived,
and the _diptera_, which have two halteres behind the wings--in these
families there are only two wings.
The _orthoptera_ include, as familiar examples, cockroaches, crickets,
katydids, and grasshoppers; the _neuroptera_ white ants, May-flies,
caddis-flies, dragon-flies or devil’s darning needles, and hoodlbugs;
the _hymenoptera_ common ants, wasps and bees; the _lepidoptera_
butterflies, moths, silk-worms, and humming-birds; the _hemiptera_ plant
lice, cochineals, and locusts; the _diptera_ mosquitoes, house-flies,
horse-flies, and bot-flies.
The order _hemiptera_ is frequently divided into two, according as the
wings are of a uniform texture, _homoptera_, or of a varied texture,
_heteroptera_; the _lepidoptera_ are divided into three classes--those
that fly by day, and generally have the antennæ knobbed; those that fly
in the twilight and have the antennæ thickened, and those that are
nocturnal and have the antennæ slender. The English writers have
transposed the families _grillidæ_ and _locustidæ_ to suit the popular
translation of the Scriptures, and have introduced a separate order
called _trichoptera_.
As they are principally minute objects, wise men wisely concluded the
deficiency should be made up in length of name, and but one class
appears under the weight of less than four syllables. The families
composing these orders are almost innumerable, and only those that are
allied to the subject in hand can even be mentioned. Amateur
entomologists prefer the _coleoptera_ for their beauty and variety, and
collections of insects are mainly composed of brilliant, gaudy and
wondrous beetles, varying in size from the giant, as large as the pretty
fist of one of the reader’s little female acquaintances, to the pigmy
that is hardly perceptible to the eye. There is the beautiful and useful
lady-bird, the wonderful lightning-bug, the elephant beetle with trunk
and tusks, the hercules with stout heavy limbs, the palm weevil, whose
disgusting grubs are eaten as delicacies by the deluded people of St.
Domingo, and many other dangerous looking fellows with long sharp snouts
that are really harmless, and innocent looking fellows that are really
dangerous. The fly-fisher, however, relies for his pleasure mainly upon
his imitations of the _neuroptera_ and _diptera_, and not so much upon
the _coleoptera_.
The young of the insect tribe, when it issues from the shell in the
shape of a worm, is known as the _larva_, although the larvæ of some
butterflies are called caterpillars, and of certain flies maggots. When
the larva begins its metamorphose it is named a pupa or chrysalis, and
the covering with which it surrounds itself a pupa-case or cocoon. It
then undergoes a wonderful change, becoming the full-formed insect or
_imago_--the ugly worm, that a short time previous had surrounded itself
with a silken cocoon, bursting its case and flying off a gay, attractive
and resplendent butterfly. From crawling meanly over the ground or the
foliage, leaving a slimy streak behind, or horrible with a greenish
smooth body and clinging feet, or disgusting with innumerable bristles,
it soars away, its gay plumage glittering in the sunlight as it flits
from flower to flower, the envy and admiration of the human female sex.
How much is there not in beauty!
Many insects live for years as worms, and but a few hours in their
perfect state. The _ephemeræ_, so called from appearing in the morning
and dying before night, often do not reach half that age, although if
the sexes are separated they will sometimes attain the great age of
several weeks. They may be regarded as sacrificing their lives for the
tender passion. They cover our waters in Summer, warmed into existence
by the sun’s rays, flitting in a graceful but inefficient way from place
to place, or floating calmly upon the surface, dropping back into
nonentity with the departing sunlight. They are sometimes, especially in
the southern country, quite large, and include what among fishermen are
known as the May flies.
In some classes the change from the larva is not so remarkable, the worm
having much of the appearance, and many of the distinctive marks of the
perfect fly, as for example the bee; in these the metamorphose is said
to be imperfect. The eyes of insects are either compound, composed of
numerous lenses, amounting in certain butterflies to thirty thousand, or
simple, called _stemmata_, the latter alone being found in the larvæ,
although in some of the beetles the larvæ have eyes in the head and tail
both. They are often long in maturing; one species of locust, as is well
known, remains seventeen years before coming to perfection, and many
other families continue several years as larvæ. Some of the larvæ live
in the earth, some in wood, and others under water; some hide themselves
in a cocoon ere their metamorphose is effected, others build houses of
stones or sticks, others have no protection; but all are wonderful. One
swims upon the water, another walks upon its surface, a third crawls
along at the bottom, although the majority live upon dry land. In
defence they use a sting, simulate death, eject a poisonous liquid, or
emit an offensive smell. The eggs mature in the running or stagnant
water, in the ground, in the limbs of trees, in the foliage and stems,
or in the fruit. Grasshoppers in the East, grubs among savages, snails
among Frenchmen, ants among Brazilians, locusts among prophets, and, if
all reports are true, certain minute parasites among Italians, have
furnished pleasing and nutritious food.
But of all the marvels of insect life, that which is least consonant
with nature and least credible to human understanding, is the fact that
they appear spontaneously. “Why should a few drops of rain in a dusty
road produce animalculæ never seen before? Why should a little permanent
dirt originate two distinct parasites, according as
[Illustration: WEAK FISH (_Otolithus Regalis_).]
it accumulates on the head or body? Why should new insects year after
year make a perpetually changing warfare against the farmer’s crops in
gradation with the exhaustion of the soil? Why should the Hessians bring
the Hessian fly, or _vice versa_, as you please? And a great many other
Whys which never have been and never will be answered till the “heavens
shall be rolled up as a scroll.”
Insects feed voraciously on leaves, vegetables, fruit, on human
blood--sad to relate--and fortunately on one another. Mosquitoes, thank
Heaven, have parasites that cling to the delicate rings of their bodies,
stinging the arch-stinger, and inflicting by their venomous bites the
same agonies the sufferers inflict on others. It is to be hoped those
gentlemen will increase and multiply, and after exterminating mosquitoes
may pay their addresses to the black gnats. Certain families, especially
of the _coleoptera_, emit a species of phosphorescent light in the dark,
occasionally light enough to read by. The majority of insects have
wings, but many have not, and in some only one gender is winged. A few
kinds, such as the locusts, katydids, crickets, death-ticks, emit
sounds, to which man’s sympathies have added either a pleasant or
painful association, and produce these peculiar cries generally by
rubbing the wings or some part of the body. The wings of insects do not
exceed four, and are often limited to two; their legs are six; some have
antennæ or feelers, others long whisks from their tails.
The _neuroptera_, or net-winged insects, _florfliegen_, gauze-flies, as
they are called by the Germans, include the principal pets of the
fly-fisher. Their bodies are long, tapering and delicate; their wings,
four, almost transparent and marked with net-like veins. They keep in
continual motion for the purpose of catching smaller insects, on which
they mainly feed, and generally deposit their eggs in the water, where
the grubs live from one to two years on plants or other insects.
That most fearful looking, but really harmless and beneficent creature,
the devil’s darning-needle, or dragon-fly, _libellula_, is a remarkable
specimen of this family. They are called _demoiselles_ by the French,
_wasserjunfern_, water-virgins by the Germans; but, in spite of these
pretty appellations, are the tyrants of the surface of the ponds; they
seize and tear to pieces all other insects, including butterflies and
mosquitoes, and will clear a house of the common fly. They are cruel,
rapacious and insatiable, and I do not know of their ever being used as
bait for trout.
The _phryganea_, or water-moth, is one of the favorites of the
fly-fisher. Its grubs surround themselves with a case formed of wood or
grass, and are used by him as bait under the name of caddis-worms. They
are the favorite food of the trout in early spring. But the _ephemeridæ_
include most of the specimens imitated by the fisherman. The larvæ of
these live in the water, for one or more years, and then, swimming to
the surface, suddenly change into winged insects, delicate and
beautiful. They sometimes appear in myriads, their dead bodies covering
the water. A few make a second change after flying about for a time, and
crawl out of their skins once more, leaving their old clothes, to all
appearance perfect, sticking to a tree or fence. On their first
appearance they are said to be in the _pseudimago_ state, and to them
the name duns is applied by the fly-fisher; when they change to the
_imago_ or perfect fly, they are called piscatorially spinners. There
are exceptions to this uniformity, as with the May-flies; the green
drake is the _pseudimago_, and the grey drake the _imago_.
The _phryganidæ_ and _ephemeridæ_ are easily distinguished; in the
former the wings lie close along the back, projecting beyond the body;
the antennæ or feelers are long, and there are no whisks; in the latter
the wings stand upright from the body like a butterfly’s, the antennæ
are very short, and there are two, or occasionally three, long delicate
whisks.
The _phryganidæ_ attach their eggs to the foliage overhanging the water,
whence upon hatching the larvæ fall, and immediately proceed to
construct, of twigs or gravel, miniature houses like a snail’s shell,
where they reside in peace and safety. These cases are lined with silk,
spun from the insect’s mouth, and are so light as not seriously to
impede its swimming and rambling in search of food, and being open at
both ends, allow him a view of the outside world. The larvæ live mainly
on aquatic plants, and when the proper time arrives, they close the ends
of their houses with a species of grating, and commence the dormant
state of the pupa. In this they remain a few days, and then emerging
from their case, they ascend to the surface, burst their skin, and fly
away in their perfect state of beauty.
The _ephemeridæ_ deposit their eggs in the water, where they soon hatch,
and where the grub, which lives usually on clay or vegetable matter,
resides, occasionally for several years, hiding under stones or in
holes in the mud. It then becomes a pupa, and after accomplishing its
time, rises to the surface, throws off its skin, and flies away, bearing
the name of dun; it shortly alights on a tree or fence, and sheds its
entire skin, withdrawing even its delicate wings and minute whisks from
their previous covering. Its colors in the second stage are usually more
brilliant, and under the name spinner it enjoys the pleasures of life,
perpetuates its species and dies in a few hours. While laying its eggs,
it will be noticed either resting on the water or floating up and down
over it. Certain species can swim well under water, and I believe
descend to the bottom to deposit their eggs. I have had numbers alight
on my pants when I was wading a rapid stream, run down my legs to the
bottom, crawl over the stones, and with a zig-zag motion swim against
the current to the surface. Rocks are frequently seen darkened with
flies, that on any sudden approach drop into the water and disappear.
The _ephemeridæ_ include the blue dun, which becomes the red spinner in
its final state; the marsh brown, which changes to the great red
spinner; the turkey brown, that is transformed into the little dark
spinner; the iron blue dun, that becomes the jenny spinner; the green
and grey drakes, the July and August duns, and many others. The
_phryganidæ_ comprise the sand and cinnamon flies and the grannom or
green-tail, besides many undescribed. Of the _diptera_, which are
distinguished by having but two wings, we have the cowdung-fly, the
golden dun midge, and the black gnat; of the beetles, the peacock and
fern flies and marlow buzz; of the _hymenoptera_, the red ant and
orange-fly; and occasionally crickets and grasshoppers are imitated.
These are a few, and but a few, of the beautiful insects that sport
around or upon our lovely lakes and streams; the advancing heat of
Spring warms them into life; they burst forth, enchanting man with their
beauty, and gaily pass a few days or hours, surrounded by innumerable
dangers, which they seem never to heed. One kind succeeds another as the
summer advances, usually the more gaudy during the greatest heat, till
they crowd the ponds, the air, the bushes with indescribable brilliancy.
I have seen, toward evening, yellow sallies appear in myriads, their
dead bodies literally covering the water; and in the St. Lawrence
rivers, dead eel-flies lie in such masses as to give the effect of
sea-weed.
It is very desirable that fishermen should, for their own sakes as well
as the sake of science, pay more attention to the habits and
peculiarities of these insects. The study of nature in its minute
productions is wonderful; the observations of individuals combined is of
great value, and adds immensely to the general store of knowledge;
something more would be effected than the mere pleasure of taking a
large mess, and the reproach of idleness removed from our enjoyments. To
be sure, the men of science, by the use of ridiculous foreign names and
the confounding of a confused and worthless system, have done all they
can to discourage such an undertaking and repel such aid; but every one
can note the peculiarities that are heretofore mentioned, can even
readily preserve a specimen and mark the times and manner of their
appearance and the length of their duration, and though he may fail to
obtain the scientific name, can determine the species and ascertain the
habits of a few members of the most wonderful, intricate, and
interesting portion of the creation.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXIX.
CAMP LIFE.
One of the most important matters that demand the sportsman’s attention,
is the equipment he should take with him to make his life in the woods
pleasant. He will have many annoyances and even hardships to encounter,
and should be as well prepared to meet them as circumstances will
permit. The following directions are founded upon the idea he intends to
retire to the wilderness, far from the abode of man, where he will have
to trust for his support to his own exertions, and although many of them
may seem superfluous, and to the robust may savor of effeminacy, to
those who desire real comfort they will prove acceptable.
The great pest of the wild woods is--not tigers nor panthers, not bears
nor wolves, not even snakes--but something far smaller but infinitely
more terrible--THE BLACK FLY! If it were possible for the uninitiated to
conceive or the pen to describe the horrors conveyed in these words, I
should endeavor to record them. Think of the rack, the boot, the
thumb-screw, the wheel; think of being rent asunder by wild horses, or
torn in bits with hot pincers; think of the tortures of the inquisition,
or the cruel fanaticism of India, and smile; they do not compare with
the black fly. When mosquitoes hover round you day and night, when they
fill the air you breathe and deafen your ears with their hum, when your
hands, face and body are covered with itching lumps, it is hard to bear.
But mosquitoes are comparatively quiet in the sun-light, and are
partially affected by smoke; they can be influenced by a smudge, can be
frightened off and sometimes killed; they do not compare with the
sand-fly.
The latter, almost invisible to the naked eye, comes in absolute
myriads; it settles upon every inch of exposed flesh; it creeps into
every crevice; it cannot be frightened away, but must be brushed off;
its worst attacks are at night, when tired nature is pining for a little
rest; its bite does not itch, but burns like fire, till face, hands and
neck feel as though they had been scalded. But the sand-fly, bad as he
is, can be persuaded out of your tent by a fire; he does not abound
except in sandy localities; his bite does not draw blood, nor raise a
lump, and is not permanent; he does not compare with the black fly.
The latter comes without a warning note; he bites till the blood runs in
a stream, and inflicts the sharpest pain; he clings fast till he is
absolutely rubbed off, and crawls up your sleeve or pants or down your
neck; he loves not the fire, nor fears the smoke; he cannot be enticed
nor driven away. The mosquito comes numerous as the rain-drops in a
shower; the sand-fly as the motes in sunlight; but the black fly like
the sand of the desert when the simoom is raging. Resignation can endure
the first, stoicism the second, but nothing the last.
All three of these pests are found abundantly in the woods, and without
being prepared for them, instead of pleasure, the sportsman’s trip
would be one long torture. People have been known to be completely
disfigured by their bites, and I have had my neck as thoroughly girdled
as though it had been done with a hot iron. Their bite inflames the
blood, and if accompanied with the free use of ardent spirits, may
produce unpleasant consequences. Let no man through foolhardiness brave
their attacks, thinking he can rough it and not give way before such
pitiful insects; as brave and strong men as ever lived have had their
pleasure destroyed by these curses of our country, and he will repent
his rashness, if not in sack-cloth and ashes, in blood and misery. I
have seen a hard-working man so worn out by their attacks as to fall
fast asleep standing up leaning against a rock in a hot July sun, that
by its excessive warmth had for the moment driven the torments away. He
wore a veil, but not being properly arranged, the flies could climb up
its folds, and it was little protection.
One may well ask how is it possible to defend oneself from such
irrepressible villains; nor can it be done perfectly; with the best
precautions there will be enough to try nerve and temper. Gauntlets of
leather drawn above the wrists over the coat sleeve will, though rather
warm, effectually protect the hand, and when oppressive, may be cooled
by being dipped in water. A veil is the best thing for the face; a piece
of elastic run round the top will enable you to slip it over your straw
hat and fasten it above the brim, which will keep it out from the face;
a spring wire or whalebone hoop sewed in a few inches below, will keep
it off your nose, and another piece of elastic round the bottom will
hold it tight around your cravat, so that the flies cannot make their
way beneath it; or the latter may be omitted to enable you to wipe your
face and rub off those stragglers that will find their way in,
notwithstanding your precautions. There is a light substance called
tissue, that makes a cool but delicate veil, and is preferable to the
ordinary barege, and for mosquitoes and black flies, bobinet is still
lighter, but sand-flies might pass the meshes.
Various ointments have been tried with partial success; among them, tar
ointment has lately become conspicuous, as also oil with a few drops of
creosote, but my favorite has always been a mixture of the oil of
penny-royal with an equal amount of almond or sweet oil; this is both
cleanly and effectual, and need only be renewed once a day. But remember
it must be the oil and not the essence of pennyroyal, which latter is
utterly worthless. Care must be taken with it, as with the others, not
to let them run into the eyes, as they will produce unpleasant smarting.
This composition is death on black flies, and quite successful against
mosquitoes; but it is well, also, to be provided with tar ointment,
which will not spill if the bottle is broken.
For clothes, the best suit is of strong duck, heavy enough to resist an
able-bodied mosquito, but as loose as possible, so that warm flannels,
of which every description should be taken in abundance, can be worn
beneath. Flannel coats, shirts and drawers or pantaloons can be crowded
into a small space, and are excellent for keeping out cold, and are not
rendered unpleasant by moisture. It must be borne in mind that the
Summers in Canada are occasionally absolutely cold, and for weeks in
July, I have shivered in every coat and flannel I had with me.
Moccasins are the things for the canoe, but if you try to clamber over
rocks or wade streams in them, your feet will be bruised and cut
severely. It is advisable to wear stout ankle gaiters that lace up, with
heavy iron-nailed slippers that may be fastened with a strap and buckle
over them, after you have left the canoe, and by means of which you can
cling to the rocks without slipping so frequently as you otherwise
would. You will wear a straw hat, of course, and where mosquitoes are
not innumerable, your flannel underclothes will make a delightful
boating suit. Never use anything but woollen socks for any sort of hard
walking, and by having your net handle shod with iron, and carrying it
in one hand, you will make your way among the slippery rocks with
comparative safety.
The bedding should consist of plenty of blankets, and one or two of them
coated with India rubber and rendered waterproof, to keep off the
moisture that will always rise from the ground at night, to wrap the
rest of your clothes in, and to protect them and yourself from rain and
wet. A stout leather strap and buckle is necessary for the latter
purpose. The best tent is a circular one without any ridge-pole, but
supported by a rope run through a pulley attached to three long poles
cut in the woods, and placed in the shape of a tripod above. The pins
are driven into the cloth itself, and hold it so close to the ground
that no insects can penetrate beneath, while a flap effectually closes
the door. There is a hole for ventilation at the top, which, in a rain,
may be closed with a canvas cap. A stout post may be set up in the
centre with a few nails on which to hang clothes. This tent should only
be used at a permanent camp; and for travelling, the ordinary tent with
a ridge-pole, as more accurately described hereafter, is preferable; a
piece of oiled cloth laid over sticks planted slanting in the ground,
will keep off the rain and dew.
A round tent of twenty-four feet in circumference will not accommodate
more than two men luxuriously, whereas one of double that circumference
will hold five times the number. A large tent is a great comfort and not
much trouble. A separate tent should of course be taken for your men,
and another simple one for a make-shift and a dining-room. To arrange
the latter is your first care on arriving at your permanent
camping-ground, the table is of bark, either birch or spruce, nailed
fast to posts, and shielded by some protection from the rain; the seats
are either a large log or the barrels you have brought with you to carry
stores and fish, or else stools ingeniously chipped from the trunks of
trees with the branches for legs. A dressing-stand is then arranged,
with a wash-basin made of birch bark; the fire-place is rigged up with a
ridge-pole supported on two notched sticks, and with a hooked withe to
support the kettle, and your sylvan home is furnished.
To support and gratify the inner man, it is well to have with you all
conceivable little delicacies, such as nutmegs, allspice, preserved
fruits, meats and vegetables, sweet oil, lemons and raisins, sardines,
chocolate, citric acid and ginger; but the necessaries are clear salt
pork, flour, rice, oat-meal and Indian-meal, coffee, tea, brown and
white sugar, red and black pepper, fine and coarse salt, butter, sauces,
preserved and fresh eggs, solidified milk, ales and ardents according to
consumption, potatoes, smoked beef, pickles, piccalilly, matches, the
essence of coffee, bacon, ham, dried beans and peas, hominy, cigars,
onions, bread, crackers, molasses, tobacco, desiccated meats and soups.
Many of these articles may be advantageously stowed in the barrels
intended for packing fish, but the butter should be put up in air-tight
jars in small quantities, and may in hot weather be buried under water
in the sand. The oil tried out of the pork is usually used for frying;
but if you have sufficient butter the latter is infinitely preferable.
For cooking you will need an iron pot and boiling kettle, tin kettles
fitting inside of one another, a frying-pan with a handle like the
kettle, a coffee-pot, some knives and tin plates, cups, spoons, forks
and deep dishes, and above all an oyster broiler. The latter has thin
wires, and, having two surfaces, can be turned more readily than a
gridiron. It should be used extensively: fish and game split open and
broiled, well basted with butter, are undeniable, and will be found a
pleasant change from the eternal fry. Large fish may be boiled and
served up with a little of the liquor strengthened with a teaspoonful of
Worcestershire sauce. The greatest difficulty will be found with the
bread; the latter may be kept a couple of weeks, and when excessively
dry, by steaming in the pot will be rendered eatable, but not good. Ship
biscuit must be the main reliance for a long tramp. Before taking your
departure, if you could obtain a few lessons in cooking from some
elderly lady friend whose youth has not been so entirely devoted to
dress as to prevent her knowing something of her household duties, and
will carry with you a few simple recipes, you will not regret it.
As no one can be certain of perfect health or freedom from accident, it
is well to be provided with plenty of sticking and court plaster,
cholera medicine and Rochelle salts; but generally the fine exercise and
open air are a brave preventive against sickness. Do not forget brown
soap to wash the dishes, candles for light in the evening, and cream of
tartar and soda to make the flour rise.
The most necessary tools are an axe, a hatchet, one of Aiken’s patent
diminutive awl tool-chests, with which to mend broken rods, needles and
thread to mend torn clothes, some rosin to mend the canoes, and a supply
of various sizes of nails for numerous purposes, while a file and
sharpening stone will be found useful additions. An india-rubber
water-proof bag is admirable as a receptacle for clothes or blankets,
which should be heavy, and a tin wash-basin and an air-pillow will be
great additional comforts. Fresh eggs may be conveniently stowed in the
barrels of coarse salt used for curing fish.
Of the foregoing there are none you can comfortably omit, and besides
them there are plenty you would do well to have; but the judgment and
taste of each individual will suggest the additions.
As one of the first objects will be to preserve the fish you catch, a
preparation of eight ounces of sugar, two ounces of salt, half an ounce
of brown pepper, well rubbed into fish from which the back bone has been
removed, and which are allowed to dry in the sun, will preserve them
over a month. They should be packed in barrels with layers of bark
between, and will prove more edible than when simply smoked; by smoking
they may be kept for years, and the fisherman long have the proud
pleasure of offering to friend at breakfast a little of the salmon he
killed and smoked himself the previous Summer in Canada.
In warm weather, fish merely salted cannot be kept long, and pickling in
brine utterly destroys their flavor; but if the latter method must be
adopted, a pickle of two parts salt and one part common brown sugar will
keep them forever. Before cooking, however, they should be well soaked.
Pickling in vinegar with a few cloves is probably the best mode where it
is possible.
The gum for mending the canoes--and it is surprising how large a hole it
will fill--is made of one part rosin to three parts balsam gum, fused
together. If the aperture is very extensive, a piece of linen saturated
with melted gum should be applied. In New Brunswick and Maine it is
usual to mix rosin and grease, which answers every purpose.
To smoke fish, it is necessary to salt them in a tub, where they can
form a brine, and leave them thus for two days, and then hang them in a
smoke-house, not too near the fire, for as many weeks, when they are to
be packed in layers, separate. Fish are soused by being partially
boiled, and having vinegar boiled in copper kettles mixed with allspice
and poured over them. Iron turns the vinegar black, and hence this mode
cannot be pursued in the woods. Small fish may be headed, cleaned and
packed in a jar, which is then filled up with vinegar and allspice and
baked all night. Next day fresh vinegar is added to make up for the
evaporation, and lard is run in to exclude the air. They keep well and
taste excellent.
An air-tight can is now made, with a cover that fits into a trough which
can be filled with melted rosin. This may be used over and over again,
and is peculiarly adapted to the woods. It must be hermetically sealed
while the contents are boiling, but without sealing might be
advantageously used to protect sugar and such things from the wet. The
same cover is applied to brown earthen jars, which are well suited for
carrying butter.
Literature will be found a great resource in the woods, and although
Harper’s last Monthly may be permissible on account of the shortness of
its stories, nothing should be taken of too interesting a character,
lest it divert attention from the main object in view. This work will be
found extremely safe.
In giving the foregoing directions it is assumed that the reader intends
to travel with canoes, and does not expect to make any extensive
portages, or, as they are called in American, “carries;” for if the men
are expected to back the traps for any considerable distance, the only
admissible articles are fishing-tackle, penny-royal, an axe, the tents,
pork, ship biscuit, tea, sugar, pepper, salt, tea-kettle, matches and a
frying-pan. The slightest weight becomes a mountain on such occasions,
and it will require stout muscles to carry enough for their own
sustenance. In salmon-fishing this is rarely necessary, unless a man
would be an explorer, and the adventurous are always sufferers.
As it is possible none of my reader’s female acquaintance have ever
soiled their rosy fingers--Heaven save the mark!--with domestic cookery,
an outline of the theory of that science may be advantageous. There are
certain well known rules that have no exceptions, unless in the hands of
a genius, and which apply to classes and divisions of edibles. For
instance, a little salt must always be thrown into the water before
anything is boiled in it. Thus, again, with the great class of fried
cakes: milk thickened with flour, and an egg or two, and a pinch of
salt, makes griddle: add squash, boiled and mashed, and you have squash
cakes; employ boiled and mashed rice in place of squash, and there is
produced the delicate rice cake; introduce Indian-meal, which has been
first scalded, and you have Indian cakes. This class of cakes is made by
pouring the preparation, in large tablespoonfuls at a time, on a greased
griddle or frying-pan. In broiling, frying, roasting, baking, or
stewing, salt and pepper are first rubbed on the article to be cooked;
in broiling, baking, or roasting, it is basted with butter or grease,
and in frying the butter is first put in the pan and heated. Potatoes
boiled, and cut thin when cold, are delicious fried. In stewing, a
little water is poured over the meat, and the cooking is done with a
cover on.
Frying is with butter or grease alone; stewing with grease and a little
water; and boiling with water alone. You determine when things are done
by the color and trying how they resist a fork. An excellent chowder is
made by putting pork, fish, cracker, meat, clams, and anything else that
is handy, with vegetables, sufficient seasoning, and a little water, and
stewing it well. Stewing can hardly be carried to excess, as from the
closeness of the vessel the nutritious particles cannot escape.
The best omelette the tyro can make, and excellent it will be found, is
by frying eggs, which are first beaten up and seasoned, till they are
not quite firm. They must be stirred all the while to keep them from
burning, and if they are done hard are ruined.
A white sauce is made of flour and butter well mixed together, stirred
into hot water and allowed to boil for a few minutes; a hard boiled egg
may be chopped up and added if desired. This is the appropriate sauce
for salmon. A brown gravy is made from the drippings of the meat, and
some burnt sugar or browned crumbs added and warmed up.
The following is an accurate recipe for griddle cakes: one pint of
boiled rice, three tablespoonfuls of flour, two tablespoonfuls of milk
and two eggs. While for fried cakes it will be observed that flour, milk
and eggs are used, for ordinary cakes flour, butter and eggs are
necessary, with sugar added for sweetening. Thus, a good cake is made of
five cups of flour, three cups of sugar, two cups of butter and four
eggs. This cake must be baked slowly, which could be done in a piece of
birch bark inclosed in heated stones, allowing room for it to rise.
The simplest and best way to boil a salmon is to slash him on the sides
with vertical cuts to the bone, having previously drawn, opened and
cleaned him, to wash him well in the nearest spring, put him into
boiling water sufficiently salt to bear an egg, and cook him seven or
eight minutes to every pound of weight, and serve him with some of the
water he was cooked in for sauce. The latter may be thickened with flour
and butter. He should, like all other fish, be cooked fresh.
Broiled fish, or, if they are large, slices of fish, cook better wrapped
in a piece of paper oiled; and the one-half of a salmon spread out,
tacked on a board and roasted by a hot fire is excellent; and in cooking
small fish suspended by a twig near the fire, Frank Forester recommends
that a small stick with a piece of pork threaded on it, should be
inserted to keep the belly open, and a biscuit placed below to catch the
drippings. A hot fire will cook a fish thus in ten minutes.
To bake a fish he is wrapped in oiled paper or birch bark, and placed in
an oven built of stones laid in a hollow, and from which the fire has
just been removed, other heated stones are placed above him, and the
fire is raked back over the whole.
It will be hardly necessary to remark, in connection with these
directions, that fish must be cleaned and have the gills removed and be
well washed and scaled before they can be cooked; that when the word
butter is used, and my reader have no butter, he must use such grease or
oil as he may have; that in all cases he can add such sauces and spices
to his condiments as he may relish and possess. Among all the variety of
prepared sauces, anchovy for salmon and Worcestershire for meats are the
best, but lemon alone gives an excellent flavor.
To bread anything, whether it be fried oysters or fried eels, dip them
in the yolk of egg beaten up, and then in cracker pounded fine, or they
may first be dipped in flour and afterward in egg and cracker.
Tea is made by pouring a little hot water on the leaves and allowing it
to draw by the fire for ten minutes and then filling up with hot water.
Coffee, by putting the coffee, mixed with the yolk of an egg, into
boiling water and allowing it to boil once--no more, on your life. If
you do not wish to use an egg, put in a teaspoonful of cold water
immediately on taking it from the fire. This is done to clear it.
Chocolate is made by melting a cake broken into small pieces in warm
water, adding a cup of milk after it is perfectly smooth, and boiling
for twenty minutes. An excellent tea is made of yellow birch bark.
Bread, especially if it is a little stale, is much improved by toasting,
which should be done by approaching it close to the fire, even throwing
it on the coals and burning the outside almost black. If buttered and
covered with brown sugar and eaten hot it makes an excellent dessert.
If salt pork is to be broiled, it should be cut thin, and may be soaked
well in water, dipped in Indian-meal, so as to bread it, and then
broiled or fried brown. It can be used in soup by being boiled in two
waters.
Smoked beef is good if stewed a few minutes with a lump of butter mixed
with flour and enough milk to cover the whole, which may be seasoned
with pepper. Fried fish that has become cold can be revived in the same
way; the flour may be omitted and some salt must be added.
An onion may be boiled in bread sauce, and removed before serving, or
pepper may be added; celery chopped and cooked in a stew or sauce adds a
peculiarly pleasant flavor. Tough meat of all kinds should be stewed,
and except salt pork, meat should be rarely fried. The foregoing are
soon acquired by practice, and experience will suggest many valuable
alterations; but they are all the directions necessary to make camp life
not merely comfortable, but by the aid of a good appetite extremely
pleasant. Cookery is no mean science, and a knowledge of it will prove
interesting and advantageous not only in the wilderness, but so long as
Irish cooks shall rule our kitchens and ruin our digestions, in the
realms of civilization.
To unite economy in space and weight with the utmost amount of
accommodation, the following sized tents will be found to answer for two
fisherman and five guides or even four fishermen.
The tent of the gentlemen should be four cloths deep, each cloth of
twenty-six inches, and cut twenty feet long, so that there should be ten
feet on each side of the ridge-pole; the wall takes about three feet, at
the upper edge of which a small piece is tabled in where the bolt-rope
passes, to shed the rain. There is an extra strip of canvas along the
ridge, with two small grummets in each end, inside the tent, to receive
the poles; but there is no bolt-rope except along the wall, and there
must be no cross seams, as they are sure to leak. A shoulder is left on
the poles, which are thrust into the grummets and a spreader is forced
up between them and sustained as a ridge-pole by a notch cut in each.
There are three tent ropes on each side, with a stout line and toggle,
or button where they join the tent, to trice up the walls in warm
weather; the doors, which are at both ends, lap well over, and are
secured by a strong galvanized hook and eye, and are closed with
strings. Along the bottom of the wall are rings to peg it down, and the
width is the same as the depth. This tent sets up eight feet high, and
is quickly pitched if the poles are retained, which can be readily done,
as they are convenient in the bottom of the canoe to keep other baggage
from the wet. The size may be diminished to eight feet square, but will
be found rather cramped, especially in wet weather, when the fisherman
is more or less compelled to stay indoors, and will not permit of what
is often desirable, accommodating a visitor.
For the men, a simple strip of canvas eight feet square, with sloping
sides, is all that is required. In fact, in cold weather an open tent
with a fire in front is preferable to all others, and can be kept as
warm as an oven. A Sibley tent has many advantages, but must be large,
and is troublesome to transport. In cold weather, logs should be cut
down and laid up with mud like a hut, or boards driven into the ground
close together to form the foundation, and the tent set over them. It
will be warmer and more roomy.
Where there is naught to be shot, and as little to be caught, no man has
any business in the woods; but as bad marksmanship or scarcity of game
may cause the first, or a rise of water the second, it is well to know
that a pound of biscuit and a pound of pork per day is all that a man
requires for his support. A fair allowance however would be, considering
it merely as an addition to the proceeds of the gun and rod, a pound of
biscuit or bread, and half a pound of pork. Where flour is taken the
amount of bread may be reducd; but as the staff of life occasionally
becomes wet and moldy, it is better to be well supplied. Half a pound
of solidified milk will last one man ten days, a pound of tea thirty,
and half a pound of tobacco one week. Eight pounds of brown sugar, the
same of butter, a bushel of potatoes, and two gallons of molasses are
sufficient for two anglers and five men one week. It is not customary to
give men milk, sugar or coffee; they are carried only for the gentlemen,
and the above calculations are made on that footing. These computations
may be relied on, and will be found extremely useful; although the
luxuries of camp life may fail, the necessaries must not be exhausted.
There is no fun in having to send a couple of your best men fifty miles
for provisions, when salmon are rising or a long journey is to be made.
Time devoted to pleasure is precious; a day wasted is indeed a loss.
* * * * *
And now, good reader, farewell. In looking over this book, I perceive
how far short I have fallen of my own expectations, and feel how greatly
I must have disappointed yours. Much has been badly said, much omitted,
and no doubt much unintentionally misstated. Opinions differ, and
experience leads to contrary results. There are game fish, and modes of
taking them, with which doubtless I am unacquainted, and yet I hope you
will find something here that has not been written before. My aim has
been to induce sportsmen to study the habits and proper designation of
the different varieties of game they pursue, to apply the appropriate
names and distinguish the various species. My hope is to elevate their
purpose above the mere indulgence of that peculiar innate pleasure
experienced in the chase, and at the same time, if possible, to press
upon the attention of naturalists the vast assistance they might obtain
from their humbler brethren by reducing their language to the standard
of ordinary comprehension; and above all, to insist, by every
consideration of humanity, upon the absolute necessity of preventing the
cruel, wanton, and untimely destruction of the beautiful inhabitants of
our woods and waters. These have been my objects; it is for you to judge
how far I have succeeded. But, reader, let me warn you: neither praise
nor dispraise overmuch. In either case I shall write another book, to
justify the former or disprove the latter.
[Illustration]
APPENDIX.
FLIES, RODS, REELS, AND LINES.
Since the body of this book was written, the tackle-makers have taken it
into their heads to give the fishing world the most wonderful assortment
of flies that the mind of man could have conceived, and far beyond
anything that nature could in her most festive moods have produced. I
give them not because I believe any such assortment to be necessary for
the angler or tempting to the fish, but because they are so wonderful in
themselves and so very attractive to the tyro who fancies that beauty of
tackle is going to produce fulness of creel. I am indebted for them less
to my own knowledge than to the kindness of Mr. W. Holberton who, to
excellence as a fly-fisherman, has had the good fortune to add
experience in the business. So firmly have some of them established
their reputation that a modern book on angling would not be complete
without them.
The strongest flies are tied with reversed wings, as they will last much
longer. Use highest-quality sproat hooks and selected white or
mist-colored gut snells. Salmon flies are now often tied on small double
hooks, instead of on large ones, as formerly. For salmon flies even more
care should be taken in choosing the gut, as not only is the fish
larger, but the loss of a salmon is more serious than the loss of a
trout.
The following list comprises all those of any value sold in the shops,
whether copied from nature or evolved from the inner consciousness of
the tackle-maker. For the smaller streams in the Middle and Eastern
States, the coachman, royal-coachman, grizzly-king, Abbey, Montreal,
Imbrie, brown-hen, white-miller, orange-miller, yellow-sally,
black-gnat, great-dun, queen of the water, Hooker, golden-spinner,
Cahill, silver-black, professor, march-brown, jenny-spinner, red or dun
fox, silver-brown, hare’s-ear or dark-fox, blue-dun, dusty-miller,
coch-y-bon-dhu or marlow-buzz, gray-gnat, cow-dung, Beaver-Kill,
grannom, Ronald’s stone, brown-stone, and the various colored hackles.
On some waters the addition of jungle-cock’s feathers to the above will
prove very killing.
On Long Island waters the favorites are the cow-dung, scarlet ibis,
Cahill, Imbrie, yellow-sally, great-dun, hare’s-ear, queen of the water,
black and gray gnats, golden-spinner, silver-black, grizzly-king,
professor, Abbey, Montreal, and the different colored hackles. Hooks for
the above lists should be numbers 8 to 12.
For the Adirondacks, Maine, and the Canadas, light and dark Montreal,
Abbey, scarlet-ibis, professor, great-dun, brown-hen, Brandreth,
cock-robin or Murray, silver-doctor, Parmacheeny belle, St.
Patrick, McAlpin, Lawrence, Holberton, Rangely, Molechunkamunk,
Mooseluck-maguntic, Beatrice, No. 8, Round-lake, Bemes, tinselled-ibis,
Elliot, Megalloway, silver-black, Canada, blue-jay, Jenny-Lind, and the
hackles. Also any of the above, with the feathers of the jungle-cock
added. They are to be tied on hooks numbered from 3 to 5, and may be
reinforced by a short piece of gut tied in alongside of the other and
extending above the hook, making the snell double for half an inch
beyond the head of the fly.
For black-bass any of the large flies previously named
[Illustration: SPROAT HOOK.]
[Illustration: O’SHAUGHNESSY FORGED HOOK.]
may be used, and the following are particularly good: turkey,
scarlet-ibis, Page, Brandreth, Fergusson, grizzly-king, Montreal,
silver-doctor, Rube Wood, Lord Baltimore, Whitney, Elliot, Rangely,
Holberton, humble-bee, Gov. Alvord, and white-miller. The hooks for
these should be from numbers 1 to 4. For trolling, the same tied with
double snells may be used on hooks from 2/0 to 1.
For salmon-fishing, the following are recommended: Fairy, Dovey-queen,
black-dose, Imbrie’s-witch, gipsy, butcher, fiery-brown, bonne-bouche,
silver-gray, silver-doctor, orange-doctor, black-doctor, lion, Dunkeld,
blue-tansy, gold-finch, dusty-miller, Wilmot, thunder-and-lightning,
blue-Highlander, parson, Wingfield-red, Popham, Jock-Scott, and
Durham-ranger.
Lines are now made in an endless variety and of a vastly improved
quality. For salt-water fishing, linen lines are generally used, as they
stand the action of the chloride of sodium better than silk. For heavy
work, such as cod-fishing, trolling for blue-fish, and deep sea-fishing,
braided and hawser-laid cotton lines are the best. The lines used by the
anglers at West-Island, Pasque, Cuttyhunk, and other localities where
large striped-bass are taken, are made of the choicest flax, hand-laid
of from nine to eighteen threads, and notwithstanding their fineness,
are marvels of strength.
For fly-fishing for salmon, trout, and black-bass, the polished
enamelled waterproof, tapered, silk lines have entirely superseded the
old hair, and hair-and-silk lines. For fresh-water trolling and
bait-fishing, there are the hard-braid linen lines and the oiled silk
braided lines, and pure boiled or raw-silk for minnow-casting for
black-bass, and so forth.
Good leaders are a very important portion for an angler’s outfit, and
more fish are lost through the use of poor gut and improper snelling
than from any other cause. The best silk-worm gut from which leaders are
made, comes from Spain, and should be carefully selected, only perfectly
round and even strands being used. Anglers should discard any leader or
snell that is at all rough or flat, or that has been dyed. Dyeing can be
easily detected by its decided color, generally either a blue or
greenish tinge, and the process injures the gut. A true mist-colored
leader should be without any tinge other than a faint mist or
water-color, which is obtained by staining, and not by dyeing.
The hooks now generally preferred by anglers are the highest quality
sproat and the forged O’Shaughnessy, the latter being used principally
for striped-bass, blue-fish, and channel-bass. For the heavy fishing at
Cuttyhunk, West-Island, Newport, and Narragansett Pier, the knobbed and
needle-eyed O’Shaughnessy is the favorite. The highest quality sproat is
used for black-bass, salmon and trout flies, and is rapidly becoming the
favorite hook among expert anglers. The advantage of the highest-quality
forged O’Shaughnessy hooks consists in the fact that not only are they
made of the choicest steel, but that the forging breaks every hook in
which there is the slightest flaw, while the difference in price between
them and inferior grades amounts to only one-third or one-half of a cent
on a hook, an amount not worth considering under the circumstances. The
old-fashioned kirbed hooks are rapidly going out of favor. The sproat
has been greatly improved lately, the line of draft is in direct line
with the point, which is small and keen, and penetrates a fish’s mouth
more easily than a clumsier hook. The barb, too, is small and gives less
room for play and does not tear so large a hole as a coarser hook. When
fishing with a light rod, this is a great advantage both in striking and
playing a fish. In fact it is almost impossible to drive a coarse large
barbed hook through the tough mouth of a black-bass with the light rods
that are now coming into favor.[19]
For fly-fishing there is no rod like a well-made round, split bamboo;
but to be well made, and no other is really worth having, a round
eight-piece split bamboo is an expensive implement and costs a high
price. But when well made it is not only a thing of beauty and a joy
forever, but will stand an amount of exposure and hard work not to be
obtained from inferior rods. It has not always been possible to obtain
such implements in their perfection, as some manufacturers who have not
had the necessary experience, or who in their anxiety to produce a cheap
article have slighted their work, have given the split bamboo rods a bad
name. They should be made from the upper part of the canes alone, as in
that part the nodes which give them their strength are the thickest. The
outside or glazed part of the cane should come on the outside of the
rod, and the joints should be so perfect that they cannot be traced by
the eye, as if there is the least opening water will get in and destroy
the rod. While if thoroughly well finished, they are the best article of
their kind, nevertheless greenheart, cedar and lancewood rods all have
their admirers, and in skillful hands will do efficient work.
Machine-made rods should be avoided by every angler who takes pride in
his casting or his tools, no matter how cheap they are. The best proof
of the superiority of the bamboo rod is the fact of its general use at
all public tournaments where its power has been proved by a cast of over
eighty feet with a four and a half ounce rod.
In giving the weight of a trout rod, it should be stated whether the
ordinary mountings are included, as they make a difference of several
ounces. The fly-rod that in a tournament would be called a four or
five-ounce rod, would in the hands of the sportsman be found to weigh
nine or ten ounces. When a weight is given in these pages, the full
weight of mountings is intended, so that a nine-ounce rod is what the
professionals would call a five-ounce rod.
Great strides have been made by professional fly-casters in the matter
of length of cast since this book was first written. Then a cast of
seventy feet was considered a very long reach, but now eighty-five feet
have been cast with a rod of four and seven-eighths ounces, and
eighty-seven feet with a twelve-ounce rod. The rods in these cases are
heavy at the tip, and are not well adapted to ordinary fly-fishing and
would soon tire out the strongest wrist. They are in all instances made
out of split bamboo. In bass-casting, that is what is called Cuttyhunk
fashion, the public trials have not been satisfactory, the casts not
having been scored at much over one hundred and sixty feet. But there is
no doubt that with the regulation weight of two and a half ounces, at
least two hundred and twenty feet can be cast. To make very long casts
with a fly, it is essential not only to have a stiff rod and to fasten
on the droppers with short snells, but to put double gut at
[Illustration: O’SHAUGHNESSY FORGED HOOK.]
[Illustration: SPROAT HOOK.]
the head of the stretcher-fly. Moreover, the flies must not be allowed
to sink, but must be retrieved immediately in order to get the line well
out behind, which is the great difficulty in distance-casting. In actual
fishing the angler is considered an expert who alone and unaided can
strike, play and land a five-pound trout or a fifteen-pound salmon.
Those are tests of skill that far exceed casting ninety feet in an open
pond with a top-heavy rod.
Reels have kept up with the march of improvement in fishing tackle, and
are now made much lighter and stronger than in days gone by. Hard rubber
has taken the place of metal to a great extent, making the reel very
much lighter. Aluminum has been tried, but, though very hard, it is a
metal of poor texture, so that the screws do not hold, and the reels
soon get loose and shaky, while at the same time it is expensive. There
are several patented trout reels for getting large barrels to wind the
line on quickly, or to expose it to the air so that it will not rot.
Most of the fine reels are made of German silver, and with works as
carefully constructed as those of a clock, for the striped bass reels
must run with absolute perfection. A valuable invention of Messrs. Abbey
& Imbrie provides for the adjustment of the bearings, so that any wear
can be readily taken up, and the reel kept in good condition without
expense. It consists of the use of steel-screw pivots easily adjusted,
which reduce the friction to a minimum.
There is an endless variety of spoon baits now made for the angler to
select from; among them the most admired are the “fluted spoons” and the
“mottled pearl,” including the new Florida pearl spinner, with a body of
white pearl, combined with a mottled revolving spoon. But the
old-fashioned revolving silvered plate in its various forms is by no
means superseded by these modern mysteries.
The introduction of black-bass throughout the country has created a
large demand for artificial baits. Live minnows are often difficult to
obtain, and the market is now well supplied with artificial minnows,
frogs, dobsons, crickets, beetles, and grasshoppers. Of these baits, the
“fairy” is the most successful. It is made of fish-skin, and has the
scales of the real minnow preserved. It is as soft and flexible as the
live bait, and will kill black-bass and pickerel when every other
artificial bait fails.
Of minnow gangs there is also a great variety, the latest and one of the
best being the “St. Lawrence” gang. This has a thin baiting needle,
which allows the most delicate minnow to live for hours, and has not the
usual great number of treble hooks to make it troublesome and unsightly
for delicate fishing.
INDEX.
A.
PAGE
Allowance of provisions, 312
Attihawmeg, 147
B.
Bass, black, 217
Otsego, 151
rock, 222
Baits for trout, 33
Black Fly, 297
Blue-fish, 153
Boiestown, 135
C.
Camp life, 297
stores, 302
_Centrarchus æneus_, 222
_fasciatus_, 217
Cisco, 149
Classification of fish, 7
Cooking, 303, 307
_Coregonus albus_, 147
_Otsego_, 151
Common Carp, 163
Crab bait, 205
Curing fish, 304
_Cyprinus carpio_, 163
E.
_Ephemera_, 292
_Esox estor_, 164
_fasciatus_, 187
_Elucioides_, 181
_reticulatus_, 182
_tredecem radiatus_, 184
F.
Flies and knots, 263
for bass, 283
for salmon, 263
for trout, 16
Flies, Rods, etc., Appendix.
G.
Ghost of Deadman’s Landing, 126
story of Abraham, 129
Glass-eye, 224
Green-fish, 153
_Grystes nigricans_, 217
H.
Horse mackerel, 153
I.
Insects, 285
K.
Knots, 263
L.
_Labrax lineatus_, 202
Landing fish, 28
La Val, 61
lake, 77
_Lucioperca americana_, 224
M.
Mascallonge, 164
Mascanonga, 164
Marshpee, 22
Miramichi, 120
Moose story, 131
N.
_Neuroptera_, 291
New Brunswick, trip to, 116
Nipisiquit, 140
O.
Ohio salmon, 225
Otsego bass, 151
P.
_Perca labrax_, 202
_flavescens_, 228
Perch, yellow, 228
Pickerel, 198
common, 182
great northern, 181
Long Island, 187
Pickering, 224
Pike, federation, 184
of the lakes, 224
perch, 224
Propagation of fish, 230
_Phryganea_, 292
R.
Roe of shad or salmon, 204
Rock-fish, 202
S.
Salmon, 88
Salmon fishing, 92, 102
habits of, 98
rivers, 167
rivers, how to reach them, 111
time for catching, 94
place for catching, 94
rod for, 91
Ohio, 225
_Salmo salar_, 88
_trutta marina_, 41
_Sciena lineata_, 202
Scollops, 207
Sea trout, 41
Shrimp bait, 205
Skipjack, 153
Smoking fish, 305
Snap-hook, 176
Snapping mackerel, 157
Spearing, 209
Spoons, 174
T.
_Temnodon saltator_ 157
Tents, 293, 311
Thousand Isles, 189
Trimmers for pickerel, 177
Trout, American speckled, or brook, 12
flies for, 16
fly-fishing for, 18
baits for, 23
sea, white or silver, 41
white, or Scoodic, 145
W.
White-fish, 147
trout, 145
FOOTNOTES:
[1] These periods do not refer to the game laws.
[2] If he is alive at this writing.
[3] Since that was written, many of these waters have been depleted,
and Long Island has been so thoroughly preserved that there is hardly a
free pond or stream from one end to the other of it.
[4] Since then passed away. Peace and happiness be with him.
[5] The old Stump Pond trout has of late years wholly disappeared.
[6] A fine hotel has been built at Tadousac.
[7] License is now required for fishing in the British Provinces
anywhere.
[8] Hon. Wm. F. Whitcher, late Superintendent of Fisheries of the
Dominion, and as skillful an angler as ever handled rod or wet a line.
[9] This is changed. There is no free salmon fishing in the Provinces.
[10] The best river now is the Restigouche.
[11] See Post as to modern fishways.
[12] Probably at least a year later than this.
[13] Travelling in the Dominion has been much improved since the
foregoing was written, and the hotels are better. The expenses of
living are higher than they were, but still much cheaper than in the
United States.
[14] Mr. Dominy has gone, but Mr. Royal Sammis keeps a large and
fashionable hotel at Fire Island, which every sportsman should visit at
least once in his life.
[15] The finer qualities of carp, the “leather” and “mirror” carp, have
been introduced into America by Mr. Spencer F. Baird, the scientific
and enterprising Commissioner of Fisheries of the United States, and
have proved a success.
[16] Prepared lines are sold now at all the fishing-tackle shops,
and linen lines are made so fine, beautiful, and strong, that for
bass-fishing nothing better is needed. For surf-fishing use a
nine-thread line.
[17] It is now generally accepted as the scientific conclusion that
the Oswego bass, the Southern black-bass--there called the chub--and
the big-mouthed bass, are one and the same. I know, however, that the
Southern black-bass, the _Grystes salmoides_, is a much finer fish on
the hook and on the table than his supposed compeer, the Oswego bass,
and takes the fly as freely and fiercely as the true black-bass. The
latter is now generally called the Small-mouthed bass, that being his
distinguishing peculiarity.
[18] For thorough instruction in the details of the artificial
cultivation of all varieties of fish, the reader is referred to a work
entitled “Fish Hatching and Fish Catching” written by Seth Green and
Robert B. Roosevelt which exhausts the entire subject.
[19] Some of the illustrations in this volume have been furnished us by
Messrs. Wm. C. Harris, and Abbey & Imbrie.
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