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‘T is night upon the lake,
Our bed of boughs is built where—
high above——————-
The pine tree soughs.
‘Tis still,—and yet what woody
noises loom
Against the background of the silent
gloom;
One well might hear the opening of
a dower,
If day were hashed as this.
—Richard Watson Gilder,
The Voice of the Pine.
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E reached the lake in the evening-, and started out bright and early the next morning to call upon some of the old inhabitants who wear fins and have a reputation for being scaly. A new and fascinating Dowagiac minnow caught the eye of a big bass before we had gone forty rods, and connections were promptly established. As he was being kindly but firmly persuaded to approach the boat he flung himself into the air, gave a twist and a wiggle and a shake and thus succeeded in appropriating that Dowagiac to his own uses. He has not been heard from since that brief interview, but it is safe to say that he is putting on airs as he dangles that rainbow-coloured minnow before the eyes of his admiring relatives. We have sometimes doubted the truth of the old saw that it is unlucky to lose the first fish hooked, but all doubt on that point has been put to flight.
A day or two later five fine bass were caught one afternoon and hung over the side of the boat on a hastily improvised stringer. Rowing home the stringer parted through chafing on the side of the boat and the bass went their respective ways. Not content with this unfriendly slap, Dame Fortune—or inexcusable carelessness—permitted the string of the minnow pail, also hanging over the side of the boat, to break, involving the loss not only of the pail but of some four dozen A-1 minnows. When the Junior had captured a three-pound bass we concluded to tie him—the bass—up to a root that reached out over the water and to keep him until later. Just when he seemed to be thoroughly halter-broken he succeeded in untying the knot and we saw him no more. All this was bad enough, but to make a complete job of our discomfiture the minnow-trap which was supposed to be busily at work luring bait for our use, suddenly and unaccountably disappeared. Then the outer pail of the new minnow-bucket was missing and the scaler could not be found. It rained and then rained some more. The bass absolutely refused to strike at a spoon-hook or pork rind or the new Dowagiac. Why did we ever leave our happy home?
It is always darkest just before dawn. The outer pail of the new minnow-bucket had been borrowed by a Methodist preacher who was camping nearby, and was returned the same afternoon. The minnow-trap had been rolled out into deep water by the under-tow, and within twenty-four hours of its disappearance was back in its accustomed place and hard at work. The scaler reappeared as suddenly and unaccountably as it had disappeared. A new stringer was easily manufactured and, with a plentiful supply of minnows, the bass needful to adorn the stringer were easily persuaded to come to hook. The weather-man repented of his unkindness and gave us days of glorious sunshine. The lake dimpled and laughed, the pines whispered all kinds of friendly messages, the red-squirrels scolded at us from the tree-tops where they were busy cutting off pine cones, and the chipmunks made friendly advances as we sat by the lakeside. The moon almost turned night into day and night loons called to us, “Ha! Ha! What’s the matter with you? This is a beautiful world. Minnesota is the finest part of the world and this is the fairest spot in Minnesota. Cheer up!” And we did.
Now that we have gotten out of the dumps and life is worth living, let’s go fishing. What shall it be? Or will you take anything that comes your way? There are bass and crappies and sunfish and great northern pike, not to mention rock-bass and perch. The natives aver that there are also enormous wall-eyed pike and we believe it, although they were always out when we called. Thanks be! there is not a pickerel in the lake. The great northern pike looks much like his kinsman, the pickerel, but differs in body-markings, gill-covers, general shape—being more stocky—and especially in palatableness. He is a vigorous fighter. Mr. Louis Rhead, in his book on “Fish and Fishing,” says that neither the great northern pike nor the pickerel has ever been known to rise above the surface of the water after being hooked. If that is correct, then something new under the sun has happened recently, for the writer, with eighty to a hundred feet of line out, had a nine-pounder throw himself entirely out of the water in his efforts to escape. The largest ever caught in this lake weighed thirty-six pounds, but numbers are taken that go over ten pounds each. They are nearly as gamey and quite as good eating as the muskallonge.
The crappies are more friendly. Early in our stay we located a “bed” which never failed to respond to a call. If there is any fish in these northern lakes that makes a more delicious dish than fried crappies, we want to be introduced to it. It is not all unusual to take them weighing a pound each, but this seems trifling when the Methodist preacher aforementioned tells us that he caught seventy-five in Lake Itasca in less than an hour which averaged two pounds each. Bass are here in abundance but were not responsive this summer. Those caught were ridiculously fat.
To cap the climax of attractions there is a trout stream only three miles away. Visit it? Rather. A friendly neighbour furnished horse and buggy and acted as guide. We had a few alleged angleworms, and even with these emaciated, scrawny apologies for bait we took enough trout to furnish a meal for each family represented by the anglers. The stream flows through a marsh and is fed by numerous springs. Where we first struck the brook one needed a magnifying glass to find it. How a six-inch trout manages to turn around in it passes understanding. It grows as it goes, however, and widens into quite a respectable stream during its journey of a mile.
For some years now the writer has been inflicting fish stories upon the unsuspecting public, and the impulse is strong within him to add more to those already told. He has a new supply growing out of the experiences of the summer, and it is hard to keep them bottled up. He would gladly particularize concerning the ten-inch trout that was waiting for him under the roots of a big tamarack just where the foam had formed a shady hiding-place, or mention specially some of the fights with the pike. But the cynical skepticism of assumed friends, the frivolous, not to say contemptuous comments made concerning the writer’s previous contributions to piscatorial knowledge, have deeply wounded his sensitive spirit, and he cannot summon courage to challenge renewed unkindness.
Just why fish stories should be discredited so readily by those who do not fish it is difficult to understand. Why should a man who does not know the difference between a spoon-hook and an ostrich feather and who cannot tell a sunfish from a rainbow trout sit in judgment upon the solemn assertions of experienced anglers? This attitude of chronic unbelief concerning the testimony of honest men is unbecoming. We have heard many fish stories during the summer, all of them true. We have even heard varying accounts of the same incident and have believed them all. That comes from possessing a trustful spirit. A gentleman told us of seeing a string of five fine bass and some fifteen or twenty sunfish and perch caught by a cottager who came over from an adjoining lake. The next day another gentleman gave an account of the same catch and the number of bass had increased to twenty-five. On the third day, as vouched for by another gentleman, there were one hundred bass in that string and they averaged between four and six pounds. Now some suspicious individuals would scoff at the apparent discrepancies, but it is easy to reconcile the different statements. The first gentleman may have seen the catch early in the day and the other accounts may have been based upon later accumulations.
Among the most untiring fishermen met this summer were a father and son who chased the great northern pike with a zeal worthy of such a cause. One day the father informed me that they had caught a pike weighing fifteen pounds the day before. Soon after the son gave his version of the capture and said the fish weighed eighteen pounds. But why cavil? Are we to make no allowance for youthful imagination? Is a little matter of three pounds to be allowed to spoil a good fish story?
The writer ventures to record these experiences because they are not his own. Possibly he may be allowed to set down one other incident, inasmuch as it does not concern him personally: On the shore of the lake—the precise location was not given—once lived a farmer who owned a dog famed for exceptional intelligence. It occurred to the farmer that, as the dog loved the water and seemed interested in the fishing excursions which they took together, it might be possible to utilize the canine ability to practical ends. Fastening a trolling line to the dog’s tail, he took him out upon the lake, threw him overboard and rowed rapidly to shore. Of course, the dog swam after the boat and had not gone far before he hooked on to a good-sized bass which he dragged after him to the land. The owner praised the dog and continued his training until the beast had become a proficient troller, entering into the sport with eagerness and zest. If the master failed to set him to work for a day or so the dog would bring the trolling line in his mouth and plead—as well as a dumb animal can—to be allowed to go fishing. If he caught a bass he would give two barks to announce the capture, and if a pike three barks, except in the case of an exceptionally large one, in which case he barked from the time the fish struck until he had landed it. If he had the misfortune to hook a rock-bass or a perch he would sneak down the shore to some unfrequented spot and there gnaw the intruder off the hook and then go back to work again. Would that we could record a long life for this most wonderful animal, but, alas! he came to an untimely end. When but four years of age, in the fulness of his powers, he begged to go fishing one lowering day. Soon after he had begun trolling up and down the shore the master heard his bark of victory and, as it was continued, knew that he had hooked a large fish. The barks soon took on a note of anxiety, gradually merging into fear. Rushing down to the shore the horrified farmer was just in time to see the dog being rapidly drawn backward despite his most heroic efforts. A moment later and a great pair of jaws opened and enveloped both dog and bark. When, now and then, on cloudy days, a sound comes across the water that somewhat resembles a bark, the residents say to each other, “There is the big pike that swallowed Perkins’ dog.” (The writer hastens to say that he did not see the dog nor the pike nor even the bark.)
By this time some reader may be interested to know where the lake is located about which we are writing. A journey of two hundred miles almost due north from Minneapolis brings the traveller to Park Rapids, a live and growing town on the Great Northern Railroad. One may not travel far in any direction from this town without coming across a lake. Three miles to the east is Long Lake, some nine miles in length with an average width of about three-fourths of a mile. It is a beautiful sheet of water, spring-fed, blue, with sandy beaches and broken, wooded shores. Here among the pines is the cottage where we spent a delightful outing.
Unless all signs fail, this section is soon to become the favourite playground of the Mississippi Valley. It has almost innumerable attractive lakes, the fragrant pines are everywhere, the air is pure and invigorating, the fishing is varied and first-class. Twenty-four miles from Park Rapids is Lake Itasca, whose fame has gone abroad, for it is here that the mighty Mississippi has its source. It lies within the state park, which includes thirty-six thousand acres of land, and here are found magnificent specimens of the great Norway pine, once so common over all this country. The superintendent of the park is given the privilege of conducting a summer resort on the shores of Lake Itasca, and the central lodge and adjoining cottages, all built of pine logs, are very attractive. An automobile trip on an ideal day gave an opportunity for visiting this interesting place. We wondered, as we approached the lodge, at seeing the boarders playing tennis and pitching quoits when ten rods away was the lake and fishing. But more intimate acquaintance with the lake dispelled the wonder. The shoreline is timbered and beautiful, but the water looks dead, and not a sand beach is to be seen.
It is now all in the past except the memory. That will abide. The last afternoon of our stay we rowed across the lake and picked a gunny-sack full of hazel nuts, took a swim in the lake, and then built a fire on the shore over which we roasted the delicious sweetcorn, took our supper in the open, and rowed home as the shadows deepened and the crescent moon hung low in the western sky. We shall often recall the sunny days and peace-filled nights, the glory of the sunsets and the enticement of the beautiful lake. Possibly we shall feel, at times, the tingle generated by the big bass or the ten-inch trout. Certainly we shall live over again the picnics in the pine woods and the days spent in the boat voyaging in search of the wary bass.
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“Courage,” he said, and pointed
toward the land,
“This mounting wave will bear
us shoreward soon.”
And in the afternoon they came
unto a land
In which it seemed to be always
afternoon.
Full-faced above the valley stood
the moon;
And like a downward smoke; the
slender stream
Along the cliff to fall and pause and
fall did seem.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson,
The Lotus Eaters.
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T was on the Steamer “Empress,” plying between Point du Chene and Summerside, that the Preacher said to his small son, “Yonder is the land.” The boy gazed intently for a moment and then solemnly remarked, “That’s the Land of Nod.” Great chap, that boy! for to his many other accomplishments he added in that hour the gift of prophecy. It is the Land of Nod, for every one you meet on Prince Edward Island gives you a friendly nod, and after you have been there a few hours all tendency to pursue the strenuous life departs, and the summit of earthly bliss is found in sitting under the shade of an apple tree and nodding at nothing.
Frankness demands a confession; namely, the Preacher went to Prince Edward Island to loaf.
He was not in search of a divinity school, or a summer assembly, or a wealthy church paying fifty dollars per Sunday for supplies. He sought a spot where committee meetings and mosquitoes and dust and noise are unknown; where he could have unlimited supplies of fresh vegetables, milk, cream, johnny-cake and cornmeal mush; where he could tickle his lungs with the breath of the sea, and, above all, where the trout hold a reception every day in the week—except Sunday. Do I hear some dyspeptic, pessimistic preacher saying, “There isn’t any such place?” Skepticism is not strange in one whose cup of bliss runs over when he finds a place where two cottages are built on a forty-foot lot and where he can plunge into the wild dissipation of croquet.
Few good trout streams flow past the front door of a summer hotel. It is necessary, as a rule, even on Prince Edward Island, to journey beyond the dooryard before coming to the favourite haunts of that festive fish. The walking is good? Yes, but the Preacher found a way that beats walking all to death. Have a man at the hotel where you are stopping, who keeps his own team and coachman; who counts that day lost in which he catches no trout; who is intelligent, genial, unselfish; who invites you daily to share his buggy in trips to streams that swarm with fish. Such a man there is (so far as the writer knows there is but one on the North American continent), and the Preacher found him. Do I hear pathetic cries from my brother preachers piscatorially inclined, asking, “What’s his name?”
“Where does he live?” S-s-h! my dear brethren. He is pre-empted by the writer, and to protect you from any temptation to trespass, we’ll just call him the Judge. Only the writer’s unimpeachable veracity as a teller of fish stories will save him from mild suspicion when he makes the following statement: The Judge, who knew every pool for ten miles around where the big trout rendezvous, insisted that the Preacher should have first chance at these fascinating spots. Don’t believe it? Well, no one can blame you for your skepticism, for in the annals of fishermen from the days of Izaak Walton until now, no other such example of self-abnegation is to be found.
It was on a Monday morning that the Judge and the Preacher made their first descent upon the unsuspecting trout. The point of attack was on a tidal stream known as Tryon Creek. Some of the writer’s friends have grinned derisively when he has told them of the “sea-trout” of Prince Edward Island, and one listener opined that “weak-fish” were probably meant. Of course there are always a few people around who enjoy the rare delights of omniscience, and it is useless to offer information to such. But for the benefit of the uninformed and open-minded let it be said that in every tidal stream on the south shore of Prince Edward Island, the well-known, square-tailed, speckled trout are found. They run up with the tide and, while many go back as the tide ebbs, a few remain in the pools. It was in pursuit of these sea-trout that we sallied forth on this Monday morning. The tide was full when we reached the stream, the sun shone from an unclouded sky, the wind had gone to sleep, and the rank marsh grass hid innumerable pit-falls. Picking our way along we cast industriously, in the middle of the stream, near the right bank, near the left bank, up stream, down stream—and not the suspicion of a response. Just to break the monotony the Preacher stepped into a bog-hole and disappeared, temporarily, from view. In response to the Judge’s anxious query, “Where are you?” a smothered voice from the vicinity of the grassroots answered, “I’m right here.” That ended the marsh fishing for that day, and the disgusted pair wended their way to a pool at the head of tide-water, where their labour was not in vain.
A little after the noon hour the Judge said, “Now we’ll go up to Mr. ————‘s and get some lunch.” If there is any home on the south shore of Prince Edward Island where the Judge has not a hearty welcome waiting for him we did not find it. Under a tent on the lawn we sat at ease, while the hospitable hostess brought forth great dishes of luscious strawberries, pitchers of cream, delicious bread and butter, and then mourned because we would not go into the house and have something to eat. It was with that at-peace-with-all-the-world feeling, which is begotten of strawberries and cream, that we turned our faces once more towards Tryon Creek. The Judge said, “Let’s try the pond.” Now fishing from the shore of a pond is torture to the sensitive soul of a true sportsman, so it came to pass that no sooner did we behold a canoe tied to the bank than preparations were made for a voyage of discovery. We discovered, all right. The Judge is a man of parts, and his fishing weight is about 250 pounds. He perched himself on the deck at one end of the canoe and invited the Preacher to balance him on the other. The proposition seemed to admit of debate, but the Preacher—accustomed to doing as he is told—clambered into the place assigned him. Then a kind friend pushed off the canoe and—never mind the particulars, but we know by accurate measurement that the water at that point reaches exactly from the Judge’s hips to his armpits when he is in a sitting posture. The canoe being righted the Judge insisted that the Preacher should enjoy it alone while he would skirmish along the shore. This arrangement resulted satisfactorily to all parties—unless we may except the trout—and long before sundown, the creels were filled and the horse’s head was turned towards home.
The writer has too much consideration for the feelings of his readers to undertake a detailed account of all the fishing experiences of a six weeks’ vacation, but he is not to be choked off until he has hinted at some of the things missed by those who were not there.
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Dixon’s Mill! How the nerves of the right arm tingle just at the writing of those two words! It was thereabouts that some of the greatest days of the summer were spent, for the pond above the mill and the pool below furnished unfailing supplies of noble trout. The pond was bordered on one side by a steep hill, clothed from water’s edge to summit with sombre fir. On the other side were the miller’s garden and the meadow. One afternoon the Judge paddled the Preacher about this pond while the latter industriously whipped the water with his flies. A more responsive congregation that Preacher never had. They slept not nor slumbered, but were up and coming from introduction to “finally.” Twenty-three trout, filling a fifteen-pound creel, were the fruits of his joyous toil. Then, just as the sun had gone down behind the fir trees and the night shadows began to thicken, we addressed ourselves to the waiting throng below the mill. There were quick and constant responses, but they did not count in comparison with the swirl made by one old veteran as he lunged at and missed the fly. Quickly the fly was recovered and cast again, and still again, for many a time. Had he been pricked? Had he seen his enemy even in the dim twilight? No, for here he is again, and this time his aim is sure. Back and forth he rushes, the light rod bending in perfect harmony to his movements, until the lusty foeman has made his last run and lies exhausted in the net. He is fresh from the sea, beautiful as a dream, the perfection of form and colouring.
It was on Dixon’s Pond that the Junior hooked his first fish. Don’t blame him for neglected opportunities, for he was not quite three years old and this was his first chance. It was where an ice-cold stream comes tumbling from the hillside into the pond, and a kindly fate had decreed that a fir tree should fall at just this spot. What a combination! No wonder that this was a favourite tryst-ing place for big trout! But it had its disadvantages, as any one will recognize who has undertaken to direct the movements of a trout that has a hook in its mouth and a tree-top handy. The Junior hooked a lusty fellow and, with some aid from the Senior, managed to get him to the top of the water, and then there was a lashing and a splashing that caused the small boy to open his eyes in astonishment. Another instant and the commotion was at an end, the trout was gone—and the hook left fondly clinging to a submerged limb. Silence—and then the Junior remarked philosophically, “That fish spread his wings and flew away.” Let no one fancy that the young man accepted defeat as his portion, for a little later he captured, by his own unaided prowess, two trout that must have weighed, together, at least four ounces. These were carefully wrapped in paper and formed a portion of his next morning’s meal.
We submit that a well-trained Preacheress should spend the summer vacation sitting on the hotel piazza busy with her “tatting.” (Don’t read that “tattling,” please.) But there is at least one of this honoured class who, at certain intervals, abjures fancy work and insists upon going fishing. This aforesaid assistant pastor and her young daughter did, upon a certain day in August, with malice aforethought, sit on the logs at Ive’s Mill and most wilfully and maliciously deceive some forty innocent and confiding trout. Then, when the slaughter was done for that afternoon, these two, with the Senior and the Junior, the Judge and two young friends, sat on the grass by the singing brook, just where some great trees cast their shadows, and regaled themselves with the lunch so kindly provided by our hostess.
One day the Preacher was left to himself. The Judge was away on business, the Preacheress felt no stir of ambition towards piscatorial conquests, and the desolate man was compelled by force of circumstances to go it alone. That was the day when he discovered the unexpected resources of Matheson’s Bridge. This bridge spans the stream at the head of Dixon’s Pond. It is not a public highway and is used only by the owner of the farm. The water has worn down the bed of the stream until there is a depth of some four feet, and it occurred to the Preacher that here was a likely place for good-sized trout. Warily he approached and cast from the upper side, letting his lure float down under the bridge and then gently drawing it up the stream. The next instant he knew that his intuitions had not deceived him. A struggle, and then a glorious trout lay glistening in the sunshine. The farmer, who was waging a war of extermination against potato bugs on a neighbouring hillside, came down and lent his countenance to the stranger poaching on his preserves. To make it short, from under that bridge that afternoon came twelve trout that weighed not less than ten pounds.
One more experience must be told. The Judge, the Preacher and the Southerner had gone up the de Sable River at high tide in a dory. Their theory was that after fishing around Dixon’s Mill they would float back on the receding tide. The theory as to the fishing and the receding of the tide proved trustworthy; but the floating was a delusion. The fact is, they fished too long, the tide had gone out, and the dory would float only as it was dragged. The Southerner declared that he was incapacitated for violent physical exertion, and furnished his share of the necessary toil in the shape of large chunks of advice. As a self-acting dispenser of gratuitous counsel he was immense. Behold the Judge at one end of the boat and the Preacher at the other, shoes and stockings off, trousers rolled above the knees, tugging and straining at that heavy boat to induce it to float in three inches of water! When they were fairly stuck fast and it looked as if the boat could never be stirred again until floated by the next tide, the reproving voice of the passenger would be heard assuring the perspiring propellers that it was all their own fault; that if they had kept a little this way or to that side, all would have been well. As they listened, the wonder grew in their minds that Job ever allowed the friends who visited him in the capacity of an advisory committee to escape with their lives. But it takes more than a heavy dory and an unappreciative passenger to discourage men who are firm believers in the perseverance of the saints, and the Judge and the Preacher hauled their burden through a mile of mud and water, and live to tell the tale.
Fair Prince Edward Island! Across the years the Preacher sees your smiling fields and sober woods and hears the beat of the surf and the tinkle of silver streams. Land of trout! Land of peace! Land of Nod!
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In lands of palm and southern pine,
In lands of palm and orange-
blossom
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine.
How richly down the rocky dell
The torrent vineyard streaming fell
To meet the sun and sunny
waters,
That only heaved with a summer
swell.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson,
The Daisy.
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S an old proverb goes, “It is the unexpected that happens.” This ancient saw, seemed to find illustration when some one called out, as we were sitting at breakfast, “Come out and see this big trout!” We were on the St. Johns River and the steamer had tied up at a landing to take on wood. A trout in Florida! Somehow that experience had not been among our anticipations when we planned the trip; but why should not the unexpected happen in Florida as well as elsewhere? Knowing that it is never safe to be too skeptical concerning any statement which concerns fishing or fish, we joined the company of investigators. On the pier was a lad of fourteen or fifteen, holding up for inspection a fish that was, indeed, big, but to northern eyes gave no indications of being a trout. It was a giant “big-month” bass, and the lad’s assertion that it weighed twelve pounds seemed quite probable. It seems ridiculous to call the handsome speckled denizens of clear, mountain streams, and the brown, ugly frequenter of the muddy St. Johns by the same name, but there is no law forbidding such trespass. When we reach the coast we find the weakfish has also been transformed into a trout.
The “dead rivers” that abound along the St. Johns are well named, although they are not rivers at all, but bayous. They have no perceptible current, and the stagnant water furnishes a most satisfactory habitat for alligators. One day, when we had committed ourselves to the care of a negro boatman, we spent a forenoon in one of these dead rivers, catching an occasional bass and shooting curlew and fox squirrels. Passing a tree-top that had fallen into the water, the boatman told us that he had seen a number of little ‘gators drop into the water as we approached, and said that he would catch us some if we wished. Rowing quietly up to the tree-top, he watched the surface of the water for a little time and then, making a quick grab, held up a little wriggling alligator some eight or ten inches long. This was repeated until he had captured five, and we informed him that these were all we could use to advantage. It is said that the relentless warfare waged against the alligator by tourists and native hunters who covet his hide has made him a rarity, at least along the lines of travel, but twenty-five years ago, no one who visited Florida need fail of a sight of this ugly saurian. Coming home in the afternoon of the day spent with the negro boatman, our attention was called to the swaying of the marsh grass not far distant, and the negro informed us that it was caused, he thought, by an alligator. With guns at cock and all ready to open a fusillade on the first appearance of the game, a cautious approach was made until we were alongside the grass. Then, as we were standing in the boat, peering this way and that in an effort to spy our victim, there was an unexpected rush, the boat was given a whack that almost caused the hunters to fall overboard, and we had a fleeting glimpse of our quarry as he disappeared in the waters of the river. The performance was so unexpected and so soon over that not a shot was fired.
For many years the Indian River country has been a prime favourite with those who visit Florida. The so-called river is really a long, narrow arm of the sea, and at some points, a walk of five minutes brings one from the river to the ocean. The soil along this river is exceedingly fertile, and some of the finest orange groves in the state are found at Rock Ledge and farther south. This body of water furnishes ideal conditions for sailing, hunting and fishing, and nothing can be more delightful than a cruise of a few days with congenial companions. We hired a sharpie, a flat-bottomed sailboat of such light draft that it is commonly said of it that it “will sail in a dew,” and with a generous supply of oranges on board set off from Rock Ledge towards the south. Some fishing, some duck-shooting, much idling and orange eating, served to make the days pass like a happy dream. When night came it was not difficult to find some winter-hotel with comfortable accommodations. Not infrequently night had fallen before we reached the desired haven, and the water would turn to silver as the mullet darted here and there before the slow-moving boat.
One day we anchored at the mouth of the Banana River, that members of the party who had never seen the ocean, might walk across the narrow spit of land that separates between the river and the Atlantic. One of the company, to whom the sea was no novelty, elected to remain on board, moved to this decision, in part at least, by the fact that he had secured some bait the night before that as yet he had been unable to use. Left to himself, he began operations at once, and soon landed a seven-pound channel bass. This seemed pretty good to the lone fisherman, but he had no sooner put on a fresh piece of mullet and thrown out than another tug at his line assured him that “the best is yet to be.” Despite the angler’s most skilful manipulations that fish had its own way at first. It went down, down, until the anxious fisherman saw that the line remaining on the reel must be measured by inches. Then it decided upon a reversal, and came up so rapidly that only by reeling madly was the line kept taut. After that the fish took a notion to circumnavigate the boat, which he proceeded to do in spite of protests from the fisherman. When one is fishing from a row-boat with anchor safely stowed away in the bow, there can be no serious objections urged if the fish decides to describe a circle about the boat; but on a sail-boat at anchor, the case is radically different. It is not easy to manipulate your rod successfully under the anchor rope, crawl under the boom, keep clear of the rudder, and never, for a second, give the fish the least slack line. One such experience is more than enough, and when that fish repeated the performance three times he almost exhausted the fisherman’s patience. But all things have an end, even the antics of a fish that objects to being caught, and at last the sturdy fighter began to grow amenable to discipline. Slowly, line was reeled in and, after many flurries and plunges, he was landed safely in the boat. Natives assured the captor that eighteen pounds was not very large for a channel bass; but even their efforts to minimize the importance of the event did not entirely destroy the angler’s satisfaction.
If there is a more uninteresting ride anywhere than that from Palatka to Charlotte Harbour, we do not care to find it. Scrub palmetto, pines, sand, and then sand, pines and scrub palmetto, until the traveller almost wishes the engine would jump the track or bandits hold up the train to break the deadly monotony. After all, that day is a red-letter one, for during it the writer made a friend. At noon, the train stopped near a lonely building in the pine woods to allow the passengers to dine. Other bills of fare may be forgotten, but the menu that noon is imperishably engraved on the tablets of memory. Who would not remember a meal consisting of saleratus biscuits—with strong emphasis upon the saleratus—“sides” of pork and sweet potato pie? It is conceivable that even these may be palatable when well cooked, but the materials used that day had evidently had no fair chance to reveal their excellence when skilfully treated.
Among the passengers was a tall, somewhat gaunt man, with long, brown hair and a straggling-beard just showing a hint of grey. The face was rugged but kindly, and the eyes deep-set. One felt, instinctively, that here was a man of power and goodness whom it would be a privilege to know, and when a chance remark made by him to the traveller from the north gave an excuse for further conversation it was eagerly seized upon. It was not until the train was approaching Charlotte Harbour that we learned the name of our travelling companion, a name familiar, then and now, the world over, among those who look and long for a better day for man—Edward Everett Hale. His destination was the same as our own—Pine Island—where we spent three delightful weeks, the greatest pleasure of which was his companionship. After we had been at the little hotel on Pine Island two or three days, the proprietor approached the writer with something of unusual timidity in his manner, and ventured the information that Doctor Hale would preach in the school house the next Sunday. “Would you dare to assist in the service?” he hesitatingly asked. “Dare to take part in the service? Why not? What danger would there be?” “But you know he is a Unitarian, and I understand you are a Baptist. I didn’t know but some one would make trouble for you if they should hear that you had joined in a service with a Unitarian,” said the kind-hearted landlord. When assured that we were quite ready to run the risk, he went out with beaming face to tack up his notices. Among many sermons heard from many preachers, good, bad and indifferent, the outline of Doctor Hale’s sermon on that Sunday morning, in the little school house, is the only one that refuses to be forgotten. He chose for treatment the story of the rich young man who came to Jesus asking what he should do to gain eternal life, and gave his interpretation of the true life. In a quiet, conversational manner, he set forth his conception of the ideal for the individual and for society as living “with God, for man, in heaven.” The points were driven home by the use of homely but telling illustrations, and, after the passing of many years, one, at least, of those who listened that day, feels the glow and thrill begotten of this fine setting forth of the possibilities in manhood.
One of the most vivid pictures of Doctor Hale which those days furnished is, as he stands on the government pier at Sanibel Island fishing for sheepshead. He wore a long, linen duster, used a cane-pole without a reel, and the fish that came to his hook were usually made to describe the arc of a circle, landing with a resounding thump on the pier. After fishing had ceased to be attractive, owing to the undue eagerness of the sheepshead to be caught, the party wandered across the island to the outer shore where the waters of the Gulf of Mexico came tumbling in upon the beach, and shells were numerous and beautiful. On the way one bought a fine specimen of the saw of a sawfish from the Cuban fisherman, and another shot a diamond-back rattlesnake which lay coiled in the path. We were becalmed that night on the sail home, and Doctor Hale’s varied experiences were drawn upon to alleviate the monotony of the long wait for a favourable wind.
The rattlers were treated with the utmost respect by all the guests after a resident physician had told us that in an experience of more than twenty years in southern Florida he had never known any one to survive the bite of a diamondback rattlesnake. When one of the visitors would go up the island after deer he preferred to mount a pony and undertake to shoot from its back rather than to trudge through the dense undergrowth when any step might bring him within striking distance of this dreaded reptile. When a gentleman from Boston related an experience which he had two years before at the very point where the hotel had since been built, the reluctance on the part of the visitors to come into close quarters with Florida rattlers sensibly increased. He was one of a party of four who were cruising along the gulf coast in a sharpie. They landed at the foot of Pine Island, and two of the party started up the island after deer. They walked about a hundred yards apart, and had not gone far when one heard his companion’s gun go off and called out asking what he had shot. Getting no reply, he hastened to his friend, whom he found on the ground and by him a rattlesnake which he had shot. The snake had struck him in the calf of the leg, and in spite of everything that could be done, the man died before night.
The first visit of a northerner to this section is certain to be filled with novel experiences. Never before has he seen oysters growing on trees, but here, at low tide, this phenomenon may be observed at any time. The so-called “coon” oysters attach themselves to the boughs which droop over and into the water at high tide, and when the tide has gone out they are left hanging in great masses, high, if not dry. The little fiddler crabs, swarming by thousands in the sand of the beach, waving their single arm frantically in the air, were an unfailing source of amusement. Pelicans abounded, and a part of the day’s program was to feed mullet to the two tame ones which made their headquarters on the pier. Through long practice and because of the capacious bag which they carry, they could catch, with almost unfailing accuracy, every fish pitched in their direction. Every day some of the visitors fished from the pier for sharks. Probably this sport has its fascination for those who enjoy that sort of thing, but when it is considered that from this same pier one might catch many varieties of excellent food fish, the passion for shark fishing becomes an impenetrable mystery.
Probably no one who fishes at all can withstand the temptation to try his hand at tarpon when visiting the Gulf of Mexico waters. One hears such stories of the gaminess of this fish, of the fight, prolonged through many hours, at times, which is necessary to land it, that he soon contracts the tarpon fever. In spite of a certain reluctance to go in pursuit of fish which are good for nothing when caught, fish that have never injured us and against which we hold no malice, a sunny morning saw the writer and a boatman starting out for tarpon. We anchored at a favourable point, the hook was baited with half a mullet, tied on as well as hooked, and then came the wait. It was not long, for in less than half an hour the fisherman announced to his oarsman, “I feel something.”
“Let him have it,” urged the boatman, for one secret of successful fishing for tarpon is to give the fish plenty of time to gorge the bait. After what seemed to be an interminable time the oarsman said, “Now strike him.” And strike him we did, with the most astonishing result. No sooner had the fisherman struck, than a mountain of burnished silver flung itself out of the water. The oarsman said it was a tarpon of average size; but to the fisherman he looked to be fifty feet long and to weigh a ton. Just how large he was will never be known, for with vicious shakes of his head he flung the baited hook at least fifteen feet away. Disappointed? Not especially. Fortunately we had never really felt that our happiness depended upon catching a tarpon.