F

OR years I have been an enthu

siastic fisherman, and I have whipped streams and lakes in all parts of the country, enjoying fine fishing, as I thought in my ignorance. But last spring at the Sportsmen's Exposition in New York, I saw some trout which had been brought from the Rangeley Lakes in Maine, and from that hour, my mind was filled with discontent.

Now, the trout has given rise to more "fish stories" than all other fish combined, and I will admit that I have taken many a trout that I thought was a "whopper," until my scales, which I knew could not lie, caused my pride to fall. So when I saw trout as large as blue fish, swimming around in the tank at the exposition, I immediately came to the conclusion that the glass was the prevaricator. A very good joke, I thought. Very clever indeed on the part of the management. But as for there being trout of that size-oh, no! ridiculous! However, when I realized that they were not magnified, I decided that the next summer

would find some of Maine's big fish and myself close companions.

When a man has a wife and children, and they all want to go fishing, too, it is a serious matter. However, after due consideration and much correspondence about hotels, doctor, drug store and candy shop, we settled on Rangeley, Maine, in which to spend the summer. After the usual preliminaries incident to such a trip, we were off for the northern woods where the big trout were waiting for our coming.

In the office of our hotel, was a list of the big fish taken early that season, showing the daily catches of trout and landlocked salmon. The weights ranged from three to ten pounds. That list was to me as a fly to a hungry trout; I snapped at it and devoured it at the first rise. Before night, I had hired. a guide, a man who was also a deacon in the church, village barber in the winter evenings, carpenter and painter by turns, and embalmer for his solemn friend, the undertaker.

The morning after my arrivalnot early, for the fish, I was told,

were considerate and would not bite well before ten o'clock-I started out to try to catch some trout like those I had seen at the Sportsmen's Exposition.

"Marsh, how can I catch a big trout?" I inquired of my guide, with an emphasis on "big," as he pulled along the shore.

"Easy enough, sir," he answered, "if you keep your line wet this summer." Then he explained that the best fishing is just after the ice goes out in the spring, and the next best, the last two weeks in September, and that the poorest time is during July and August. As it was then the first week in July, this was of course very comforting to me, and an excellent excuse for him should I catch nothing but little fellows.

My thoughts were suddenly distracted by a strike. Visions of a fivepounder danced before me; but the net brought in a half-pound chub. My next strike was off an island, some two miles from shore, and this time I landed the first of several hundred trout that I took-and in most cases put back from the Rangeley Lakes. This one did look. big, but it only weighed a pound and a half. When Marsh asked if he should put it back, my exclamation of astonishment could have been heard a long distance. It was well that he did not return it to the water, for it was the largest fish I caught that day.

My first experience was rather a disappointment as far as big fish were concerned, but I persevered and learned all I could of their haunts. Finally I heard of a place where a fine haul could be made, and I offered to pilot a number of my friends to it, that they might enjoy the sport with me. A party of ten was made up to go to Lake Mooselookmeguntic, for that was the home of the big ones. An hour on a small steamer early in the morning, a short carry, and we were there. We had with us, for

luck, the minister of the town; and for ballast, a heavy-weight friend of mine from New Jersey. It was not our day, evidently, for the rain fell in torrents one hour, and the sun shone the next. Then, too, it must have been a holiday with the fish, for though we used every artifice we knew of, the day ended in failureor I thought so, at least, though several members of the party were rather proud of their strings, the heaviest of their catch weighing two pounds.

Now, when I believe a thing, I do not give in very easily, and though I got some chaffing from the others, I insisted that it was a fine hole that we had been fishing; and to prove it, I determined to stay all night at a camp near by so that I could fish the place again next day, but the rest of the party went back to the hotel.

Next morning, I tried early fishing, and at four o'clock I was on the lake, but I had no success. The hours passed by without a strike. Two o'clock, and no fish; and only one hour more to stay. My reputation as a fisherman was crumbling under me, and the fragments would certainly be laughed away by my friends. I had almost given up hope, when my line went whizzing out, and I forgot my fatigue and disappointment. There was a rush toward the boat, and my reel sang the sweetest of music; a stop as though the fish was afraid to pull, a little coaxing on my part, a closer run to the boat, and then he broke. My nerves were all strained to their greatest tension. Now under the boat he went, then a dash, and as the line played out I feared the fish would never stop. But he did, and came rushing back, until my hand ached as I tried to reel as fast as he swam. He sulked again and again, but each time I carefully drew him closer and closer to me, until, exhausted, he came within reach of my long-handled net. How beautiful he was ! Did one ever see a fish handsomer than a spotted, square

HROUGH the cold winter months of January and February, the northern sportsman is compelled to abide his soul in patience, for there is no shooting of any description that he may indulge in. Particularly is this true of the hunter fortunate enough to reside in Minnesota, for though he may "closely be mewed up" for two months, when his guns will shiver in their cases, most of the other months of the year are so satisfactory that he rather looks to midwinter as a time for recalling the pleasures of the season just past, in building pleasant fancies and in making preparations for the season to come. A successful outing grows more pleasant as time passes, for what you thought were hardships soon dwindle into mere inconveniences; while such trifles as blistered and aching feet, lame shoulders, and flesh chilled by piercing winds, are forgotten entirely. Even a stomach that almost cried aloud in sore distress on some particularly long tramp, is remembered as only a keen appetite, as you linger reflectively over your after-dinner coffee, and you wish you had it still.

But it is the duty of the historian to record the good and the bad alike; for the story of a hunting experience that told of success only would be but fiction.

My companion on my first hunt in northern Minnesota was Fred Pierson, a resident of the only state in the union blessed with twins-healthy, rollicking, fighting twins. He lived in the one known as St. Paul, while the writer belonged to Minneapolis. This did not interfere with our friendly relations, however, nor with our many hunts together. Though we had hunted all over the southern part of the state we had never been "up north." We had often dis

cussed a prospective trip to that little lake called Itasca, away off in the north evergreen forests and tamarack swamps, the accredited source of the Mississippi, until some genius discovered that it is not.

We finally decided on this locality for a hunting trip, and left the railroad at Park Rapids a day before the close season expired, three years ago. Staying in town over night, we started early in the morning for a thirty-mile drive. It was cold, the wind was raw and penetrating, and the lumber wagon jolted and jumped and buffeted us unmercifully, as it carted us away from the last settlement up into the north woods toward Itasca. Previous arrangements having been made, we were snugly ensconced in the log-cabin of a settler, one Joel Harris, some hours. after dark that night. The last few miles of the rough and tiresome journey had been made more cheerful by the wind's falling, and the gentle sifting of big feathery snowflakes through the trees. This was just what we wanted, and no plaint was heard, though the snow covered our clothing and blinded us, for it also covered the ground and moistened the noisy leaves on the oak ridges, where deer feed in the mornings.

We

The cabin had two stories, though the floor of the upper was only boards laid over the rafters. slept upstairs, and at what seemed a most unholy hour a loose board under our bed, impelled by a broomstick from beneath, began to clatter in a way that was truly wakeful. "Time to be up. It'll be daylight before you're on the ridges, "came the voice of our host. At breakfast, he said: "I'll go with you a little piece this morning to show you good country to work over. I expect a friend, an old hun

ter, to-day, and if you like we'll all go out together to-morrow."

Three inches of snow had fallen, and our footsteps were noiseless, as we stumbled along the road for half a mile in the semi-darkness. It began to grow light as we left the road, and then we stumbled indeed, for our guide led us through a tamarack swamp and over rough ground to a small lake a mile from the road. Here he left us, saying:

"You had better hunt north. Remember you're east of the road, and if you get turned around, steer by your compass due west and you'll come out all right. Looks like more snow; there'll be no sun to-day, anyway.

It was then after sunrise, but dark and gloomy in the woods. We agreed to work around the lake, keeping to the higher ground and on northward, about two hundred yards apart. The country was broken by ridges and interspersed with marshes, then frozen over. After walking for an hour or so, I stopped to rest in a clump of willows by one of these marshes, and while sitting there the report of a gun from the other side, a quarter of a mile away, was heard; then two more shots. Standing at the edge of the willows, where a clear view could be had, I watched in that direction. Soon another shot came, this time across an arm of the marsh not further off than two hundred yards, and then I saw a large-they always look large-deer, a doe, bounding through the brush along the edge of the marsh grass.

She

would disappear in the brush and then show clearly again in some opening. She turned after passing a point opposite my position, swinging to the right, and I saw that the course would bring her within range. Watching an opening that she must pass, I stood in readiness, and as she bounded into view, I held just ahead and fired. She disappeared in the underbrush unhurt, for no blood was found on the snow. While still on the track, a great commotion to the rear

caused me to turn. Amid a clammering of tongues and smashing of bushes, three excited men broke into the opening where the deer was last seen. "Hullo, there!" called out the foremost, 66 'did you see that deer? Which way did it go? Was it hurt? Why, it ran within thirty yards of me and I missed it with both barrels!" and the mighty Nimrods went smashing through the brush again before I could speak. I mentally laid big odds on the deer.

Consulting my compass, it showed that my course had been nearly easterly instead of northerly; so I circled and hunted about the thickets and marshes toward the road. Finally, a signal came from far to the northward, and I was soon joined by Fred. He had seen nothing but a track or two and was willing to return to the cabin. The snow began to fall, and it came heavily for an hour, then almost stopped. But enough had fallen to cover all old tracks, so that when a little later we crossed a trail made by two deer, we knew that they had passed but a short time before. The trail led around a marsh and into a tamarack swamp; but we followed it, for it went toward the road.

The hunter who has not crossed a tamarack swamp when the ground is covered with freshly-fallen snow, has yet a new experience to undergo. The trees grow close together, and the roots spring out a foot or two above the water. There is no soil, though the fallen branches and an accumulation of mosses form a foundation that may be walked upon; but it is springy, and reminds one of the warning that the wicked walk in slippery places. Holes between the roots are numerous, and the unwary will sometimes try to sound the unknown depths with his foot. When the snow covers the moss so that the holes cannot be seen, you must be a gymnast to escape a wetting; for the only way to cross is to spring from tree to tree, alighting on the hummocks formed by the roots. How