^^\ TOfjere Wit Wiitti €0 Jfi£{ij with the compliments of Waldo Lee McAtee Cop>nght, 1922, b\ Waldo Lee McAtee Published by the Author Washington, D. C. 1922 ^ racOfcut. ^ likJIcLo SUi, ?[iaii)erc OTe 2Hgeb Zo Jfiai) t^* ft^* t^*' SNYDER'S BAYOU Picture the interior of a cool, whitewashed pump- house, the old-fashioned wooden pump, and under its spout in an oblong trough two wet and gleaming monsters. Such indeed they seemed to my five- year eyes, yet they were palpable fishes with round shining scales. They were almost as long as I was tall. What splendid creatures! Whether it was by design, I do not know, but when grandpa led me from the kitchen to the pump-house that morning he made an angler. And — must I confess it? — those inspiring, those all-important fishes were only a pair of despised, plebeian carp, taken most ingloriously from set lines my grandfather had put out the night before. However, just then they were not only the most wonderful fishes I had ever seen but they were an invitation to all sorts of fancied delights, a symbol of adventure. Of course, with such a grandpa, I had in some degree fished before. I can remember well resorting, in the company of the lady of my choice, to a bridge over a creek near the village, where we angled for minnows with twine and bent-pin tackle, and suc- ceeded at times, I am sure, in jerking some of the flashing little fellows out of the water. And I had m CojpY ^ accompanied grandpa before, that is certain, for he weaned me from my mother's arms as soon as she would permit it. But until the vision of the pumphouse, the call of angling had not really caught my ear; then it spoke to my inmost self and nothing would serve but I must go on a real fishing excursion, and that as soon as possible. I am not sure whether it was the same day, but recollections of youthful persistence would incline me to believe it was. At any rate it was soon, and the whole of the trip stands out in my memory among other fishing experiences like the heartwood core of a dead monarch of the forest from which have fallen away all the increments of later years . What a tramp through the autumn woods, through the red, the brown, the rustling leaves! What a joy to swish, swish, swish along! It was not far to Snyder's Bayou, — the "by-o" as all called it, — but I can remember seeing along the path the full light of the sun upon some smooth gray beeches, trees which I have ever loved to see and to touch. On the banks of the "by-o" grandpa showed me a large grape-vine hanging from one of the limbs of a great tree spreading out over the water. This had been cut off near the ground and the boys of the neighborhood were accustomed to use it when swim- ming, as a swing which carried them, after a run down the sloping bank, out where a thrilling plunge dropped them in the middle of the "by-o. " Not being a swimmer at that time, the merits of this [2] ©01A690615 device did not appeal to me. I was for fishing any- way, and was glad when grandpa told me we were nearing his set-lines. Two of them lay near together, the pegs to which they were tied hidden by the grasses along the shore, the lines entirely under water — precautions necessary to prevent too frequent examination by otherwise disinterested persons. Grandpa stooped and began pulling one in. "Mighty slack," he said; '*I guess I'll take them up anyway. " So that one was hauled in without incident, the hook bare of bait. But the next one proved the potency of fisherman's luck. "Gee, there's somethingon this!" exclaimed grandpa, as soon as he had tightened it a little. "Here, feel it." And I not only felt that vague, changing but stubborn resistance to the pull, but as it was hauled in, saw the taut line cutting the water as the fish veered from side to side. It proved to be a cat- fish, a good-sized one too, and an evil creature to handle, with its slippery skin and barbed fins. Here came the first lesson in prudence with fishes. With just the proper hold to avoid the spines, the "cat" was safely made fast to the " stringer" before he was freed from the hook, then with the land end of the string safely gripped in my hand "catty" was given the relief of a plunge in the water. Taking up this line in turn, we went on, examined and took up another pair, adding another catfish to the string. Attending to the set-lines, although interesting and fairly profitable, was, we hoped, but a prelimi- [31 nary to the real business of the day and an augury of its success. Still with two sizable catfishes on string we could not possibly be ** skunked," as the term for complete failure ran, so blithely enough we walked along toward the old saw-mill and the dam built to provide its power. Grandpa's plan called for walking across here, an arrangement which, I recall, was rather a shock to me upon seeing the narrow top of the dam but slightly above deep water on one side, and much too far above a mighty rough looking combination of timbers, rocks and rushing water on the other. But it would not do to show the white feather; if that dam had been Blondin's wire over Niagara, I suppose I should have attempted it. One simply couldn't fail before such a grandpa. It made me hungry to cross that dam, and I believe an apple and perhaps certain accompani- ments, with which grandmas always seem to fill one's pockets, was immediately needed to restore me to my usual health and spirits. However, as this process was going on, it became evident that we were on the battle-ground. Grandpa had laid down the cane poles and produced an assortment of hooks, lines, sinkers and the like. Then and there I had my first lesson in loop-knots and half-hitches, or if you please, in tying my own tackle. Though this was a matter involving some suspense on the part of a boy anxious to begin active operations, I had my reward later in the pride of having put together for myself the tackle that landed the ever-to-be-remembered fish. 141 Doubtless I caught some smaller fry that day and thus had a chance to practice grandpa's admonition to "let them run until the cork goes out of sight" — some distance in that clear water. But, we can not be detained by mere sunfishes; let us proceed at once to the event of the day. Beneath a steep and some- what slippery bank was the top of a fallen tree in which driftwood had accumulated. "Here is a good place," said grandpa, "they like to hide under the brush. " So out upon it we climbed, an act in itself not too easy, nor especially reassuring to me in view of the considerable gaps in the pile. However, we reached the desired point and located ourselves. Sundry perchlings, from time to time, were consigned to the string and then came the "bite" which any- one could recognize as that of a real fish. Though excited, I tried hard to let him run as long as I could see the cork. When I struck — a term I did not know then, of course — the pull seemed tremendous, so I yanked as hard as I could and there shot up out of the water the broadest, shiniest, most beautiful fish I ever hope to see, which landed on the high bank with a slap I can hear to this day. Neither the awkward climbing over the brush-pile nor up the shelving, slippery bank impeded me then. I scrambled to the top and threw myself bodily upon my flopping prize. Certainly it would escape through no fault of mine. Boring my fingers into its gill slits with a death grip before I got up, I carried the prize to grandpa. "Oh ho! you got a crappie, didn't you? [S] and a dandy, too!" were his congratulations. Before I released my hold, the fish was safely added to our catch. Almost fearfully I saw it returned to the water, where a few short rushes taught it the limited nature of its liberty. Under oath I could not tell you whether I fished any more that day; certainly that was the climax, the blaze of glory obscuring minor happenings. I can not even remember recrossing the dam; in so short a time had my spirit soared beyond disturbance by such a trifle. It was a well-laden small boy who carried, yea, who insisted upon carrying those fish home, for well do I remember that although I could see the head of the top fish over my shoulder the tails of the catfishes dragged in the leaves. Years have come and gone, years may come and go, but no string of fishes I have borne or shall ever bear, can be carried with more pride and happiness, and no other fish I ever caught or that I shall catch, can yield the deep, the abiding satisfaction that crappie did, nor can be enshrined in such refulgent splendor in my memory. Then, after all, the woods at twilight, as we tramped home; there is nothing like the cool hush at evening, the lofty grace of nature's cathedrals. They quite steeped the soul of a greatly exalted lad. And home-coming with great pride I laid my own trophies in the place hitherto sacred to those of my grand- father. 161 CONNER'S MILL Under Conner's mill were dim, wet-walled pas- sages about the leaky cribs that housed the power wheels. The floor was smooth limestone, the carpet rushing water, the air all coolness and mist, a delight to traverse on a warm summer day. To explore these dark caverns, to clamber in full sunlight over the great stonework that supported the dam, and to wade in the wasteway of white water down below — what joy in all of these ! In the shallow spillway schools of minnows dwelt and here we caught our live bait. This part of our program was as much fun as any for me and the way grandpa strove with the seine and gave excited com- mands, left no doubt that he was interested and enjoying it too. Stemming the swift bubbly water with our mosquito-bar net was both a struggle and a pleasure. Our sight scarcely penetrated the broken, foamy current, so our catch was never known until we lifted the seine at the end of a haul. How the silvery, flipping little fellows spattered the water as we raised the net. Generally five or ten, sometimes as many as fifty, rewarded each haul. Often small sun- fish or other stragglers were included; once in a long while even a small eel. Occasionally impetuous [7] bass, these always of the smaller sizes, ran up in the mill-tailings to snatch minnows. Feeling the en- croachment of the seine these agile youngsters would dart beyond its menace or as often leap out of the water and over the top. Enough of the ** shiners" transferred to our minnow bucket, our subsequent movements were planned to keep them alive and active. Minnows taken from this water that seemed half air showed discomfort at once in any less invig- orating medium. We kept them in the current all the way across the river and on the other side set them under some little cascade where the air supply was almost as good as in the spillway. ** Crossing the river " — I have referred to that casually but it was always a rather soul-trying experi- ence for me — because we waded. Grandpa had a course he followed by walking so far toward a certain rock then with a change of direction toward another landmark and so on. I never could help wondering what would happen to the so much shorter member of our pair should grandpa get off the course. It was impossible to bolster up my spirits by conversation, for we crossed just below the long mill dam where the roar of the water pouring over it was deafening. So mustering all my resolution I followed as close on grandpa's heels as possible. Cold water creeping up and up over a young man's ribs tends to chill the spirit and when it reaches his neck, some change in procedure seems very desirable. But onward, ever onward, was the only possibility in these crossings, so shivers and doubts alike were forgotten in the stress of action. Once across, the fun began. Innumerable eddies and pockets invited angling; the broad sweep of the river was before us; the dam roared; the saw-mill snarled; the grist-mill droned; the sun shone; and all was well. At this end of the dam it was often possible to go underneath and seldom did I fail to take advantage of the opportunity. Cool and dripping was this retreat, and behind the mighty curtain of translu- cently green water, shut off from the world, one could imagine anything. Often, however, my mission under the dam was strictly practical, for the wet shingly floor was a good place to find hellgramites and crawfishes, fiercely pinching crawlers, if incau- tiously grasped, but among the best of baits for bass. I remember well being astonished but greatly inter- ested and pleased one day to find a downy wood- pecker was not afraid to share my hunting grounds. Darting through a gap in the sheet of falling water, he perched on one of the upright timbers of the dam and pecked away as much at home as on a tree in the woodland. If the search for river bait was a success, with the earthworms usually dug beforehand in the rich home garden, with grasshoppers in season, besides our minnows, we had a variety of lures almost as numer- ous as the kinds of fishes we hoped to tempt with them. Diversity also and action characterized my [9] taste in fishing, while grandpa was for steadfast effort to get the big ones. Usually I won the count in numbers, but just as invariably he caught one or more "old soakers" that would outweigh my whole collection. Our differing propensities in fishing must have been constitutional for I believe that even to this day I would fish as the boy did then, for variety and novelty, rather than for size. Not a pool beneath the little waterfalls did I leave untried, not a great boulder but I climbed and dropped a line in the hole it sheltered. Many the bright sunfish and goggle-eye that were enticed from such retreats by my lures. What strong and gallant rushes these sturdy little fellows made, and how each was admired in general and in detail as he graced my catch. Sometimes when the sport slackened, I wedged my pole among the rocks and sought entertainment along the shore. Water flowing around the end of the dam spread out over great flats of limestone terraced one below the other and fell in endless little cataracts over their scalloped margins. These sheets of water slipped over bottoms, here of polished stone, there shaggy with green moss, from which Johnny darters were flushed by my searching toes. On the bank, thin, flat, water-worn flakes of limestone were abun- dant, and they made the grandest "skippers," although I was careful after experience not to try any of them near where grandpa was fishing. Returning to my "set" tackle always held the flOl thrill of mystery; sometimes the line was slack and when lifted brought forth a bare hook. Some "bait stealer" had been at work. Again it was taut or even sawing the water this way and that; then excite- ment was rife. A pull on the line always provoked resistance which if easily overcome meant one of the smaller game fishes was the catch, but which some- times was of a very different order and origin. A lazy, rolling pull suggesting that of a water-logged limb, betokened a catfish, and a strong, shearing pull as if there were a barn door on the line presenting its broad side and yielding toward the surface only a little for each long side slip, meant a turtle, nothing else. The kind we caught here in swift water were the soft-shelled — long-necked, snaky-headed beasts, ever ready to snap at a finger, but despite their physical and spiritual ugliness, embodying the makings of wonderful soup when carried home to a skilful grandma. The times when grandpa called on me for help were proud moments still well remembered. Usually the cause was the most common of the '*bait- stealers" — the eel. A frantically writhing, slippery eel on the hook, a problem for any one, was an espe- cially difficult one for my one-armed grandpa. Calling me to get a stick, he usually pulled the eel to a rock at the water's edge, where a tap or two on the head quieted it or providentially knocked it entirely free of the hook. On one momentous occasion the first glance I [IIJ gave In response to a call for help assured me it wasn't a miserable eel this time. Grandpa was in water up to his arm-pits, evidently having a tussle with a sure-enough big one. Here I must tell you we did not have reels and endless line, but had to play our catch with tackle of fixed length, by the "give" of the bamboo or by yielding to the pull, sometimes, as in this case, by wading as deep as we could. This time grandpa had waded and waded and allowed the fish to take him down stream and out in the current till it would have been dangerous to go farther. "Bring your pole quick!" were the first of his words I heard clearly, so I scampered down the bouldery shore as fast as I could. As soon as I got close grandpa added, "Wade out and reach me your pole." It proved I could wade out far enough, so putting the butt of his own pole under his stump grandpa threw several half hitches of my line above one of the joints, and taking my pole in hand dropped his in the water. Letting out my line slowly he backed out of the deep water, and by the time he was holding my pole in about the usual position he had reached my side. The buoyancy of the long cane pole made an efl^ective drag and the combination tackle grandpa had devised proved excellent for sapping the last energies of this "old timer." Gradually he was warped in and my pole was gi^yen to me. "Keep handy, we may need it agam," said grandpa. That generous "we" was not lost on me, you can be sure. However, the bass [121 did not have vim enough for another long rush and bit by bit was brought to shore. When he lay almost safely on his side in shoal water, my eager fingers hauled him out by the gills. What a dandy ! What a mouth! He could have gulped down my whole catch together. And he weighed— yes, I remember exactly, by the scales at the mill, too large for weighing any trifling fish— he held the beam up hard at six pounds, almost the record for the small- mouthed black bass. i\lthough I did not catch him, I volunteered as his special guard of honor all the way home, a pleasure grandpa never thought of denying me. It was a grand fish to escort through the village, possessing a dignity and importance which warded oflF sarcastic references to "fishermen's luck," but which evoked instead exclamations as: "What a whopper!" "Where'd you get him?" and "Guess rU be going fishin' to-morrow." So may we all who "go fishin' to-morrow," have as much luck and as much joy of the land and water, sport and weather, as grandpa and I had many a time at Conner's Mill. [13: THE BLOOMER HOLE A rifle, out of place though it may seem in a fish story, must serve for the reader's introduction to the Bloomer Hole, as it did for mine. Of the percussion- lock style, with long octagon barrel and brass butt- plate with scroll-like ends, it had a stock so highly figured that no name but Circassian walnut would be deemed to do it justice in present trade parlance. A cow's horn held the powder and the bullets were patched in rawhide. I have the powder-measure and bullet-mold now and wish mightily I had the whole outfit. An old-time squirrel rifle sure enough, but for all my apology, what we did with it here was not so far away from fishing; it was for getting turtles. There was a stretch of comparatively shoal water above the Bloomer Hole with many projecting rocks upon which turtles were wont to sun themselves. Along the bank ran a rail fence that afforded convenient rests for riflemen of every height. Screened by the trees and shrubbery of the shore and by the vine- covered fence, openings were sought where loafing turtles presented a fair target. I was permitted to fire a shot now and then, but always unprofitably, so far as I can remember. Inevitably, therefore, my chief function was that of retriever. 1141 More thrills for me, of course — wading out for Mr. Turtle. Stepping now on a boulder, with a hopeful proportion of my length out of water for a moment, then off to the river bed and in water entirely too deep; often finding a hole where there ought not to be one, certainly I had my ups and downs, both in movement and in spirit. Usually the turtles, with head shot clean off, were so deadened that they had not moved by the time I reached them, but often enough, also, they were less cleanly hit and managed to crawl off. Then I had to feel for them with my feet, the possibility uppermost in my mind of stick- ing a toe into the eagerly waiting mouth of a justifi- ably vindictive terrapin. However, even this seem- ing probability never happened, and the test, like others of these boyhood fishing trips, must have given me some assurance that fears are so seldom realized that it does not pay to let the mind dwell upon them. When the turtle was found, down I had to go for him, this effort not seldom taking me entirely under water. With the prize in hand the way back to shore never seemed so long nor so trying as the outward journey, another lesson for the boy that difficulties once surmounted never again appear so big. The largest and most memorable turtle we got near the Bloomer Hole, however, was not a victim of the rifle but of a set-line. He was an old mossback snapper, and how he did pull! It took grandpa and me both to get him to the shore and then when he [151 caught sight of us he was only too ready to come nearer. His little red eyes glared and his steel-trap jaws were menacingly opened. Apparently he wished nothing more than to engage in personal combat. His progress up the bank was not in the least obstruc- ted by us, but by the time he had climbed the slope and was on fairly level ground, grandpa had devised a plan for managing him. He gave the beast a good stick, big as a broom handle to bite on; it was viciously seized and the action seemed to satisfy Mr. Snapper that he was doing some damage, for he held on stubbornly from that moment. When we were assured of his liking for the stick, grandpa pulled on the line and at his direction I seized the snapper's tail and put one foot on his back. Thus we stretched out his neck until it could be haggled in two with a saw-bladed pocket-knife. Throughout this opera- tion the old snapper's jaws clung to the stick and were so locked upon it that after the head was severed from the body we could not pry them loose. The decapitated body had tremendous vitality and was so able in crawling away that we tied it to a stake in the sun so that it would be more tractable when we wanted to take it home. The shell of this old fellow was all of a foot long; and the carcass made turtle steak and soup galore. I remember yet that when we finished with that particular snapper, and a lot of work it had been, we immediately adjourned for lunch. The most fitting place for this important function, one always [16] sought by us when in the locality, was a fine spring at the foot of the bluff just above the Bloomer Hole. Over the spring was a vigorous beech with many long, slender, whippy limbs, one of which I almost always cut for a rod when fishing here. Their light- ness and pliability just fitted in with my style of angling, and with a thread-like line, small hook and float, made an outfit that suited me better than any other available then or tried since. The Bloomer Hole itself was a deep, swirling pool with a shallow gravelly riffle above it and a quiet bayou below. Except for one swift channel we crossed on a log, the riffle was grown up to water- willows and furnished firm footing about the rounded upper side of the Hole. From here I often saw my float or grandpa's carried down, down in the deep boiling pool, its movements a composite response to the rushes of a gamy bass and to the tangled cur- rents of the Hole. More than anything else I can recall, the mind picture I have of a float being torn through the seething depths of the Bloomer Hole symbolizes thrilling, joyous, triumphant fishing. Two experiences from our angling here are especi- ally remembered. While reconnoitering one day with my favorite beech-shoot outfit, I noticed a short run of current along the bank ending in a little whorl of water. This was a tempting place to drop a line and soon I started my little float in at the head of the short current. When it reached the whirl, zip! down it went. A sharp tug assured me the cause was [17] a fish, not the current, and after a short struggle, — the supple rod conveying the whole story to my eager hand, — I landed a half-pound bass. Re-baiting I made exactly the same cast, and at the whirl exactly the same thing happened, and it continued to happen again and again. The mechanical pre- cision of the short run of the float and the inevitable strike were fascinating. Seven of those half- pounders were landed; as like as peas in a pod, and it took many a trial to convince me no more were there. Another time I had laid down at the edge of the Hole similar tackle. Suddenly I noticed the float was no longer in sight. Seizing the pole I found practically my whole line under water and whatever was on it hardly yielded at all to my pull; surely it was big. Keeping the line taut it finally moved out in the pool, taking about all I could reach, then swung in the eddy and came back along the shore. The boil of the water must have helped, for the catch now did not resist coming to the surface. I kept the line taut and soon saw the head of what struck me then as a veritable monster. I might have been frightened except that it was clearly enough a fish, and therefore to be landed if at all possible. The current helping greatly, I eased this great hulk of a fish up in the edge of the water-willows, seized his gills with both hands and hauled him a few feet back on the gravel. Not until then, apparently, did the fish realize that there was anything menacing in the situation. But once on the gravel shore he flopped for all he was worth [18J and had not help been at hand probably would have gotten away from me. He was a twelve-pound redhorse and was landed by a tiny hook that had only a flesh hold in his upper lip. All due to his unsuspicious, easygoing disposition, he didn't put up a fight until it was too late. His head made an elegant chowder; which is about all the heads are good for of those who fail to make a good fight at the right time. [19] NOTES ON CONTENTS Conceived, Orono, Maine, March, 1914. Written Maywood, Virginia: Snyder's Bayou, January; Conner's Mill, August; The Bloomer Hole, September, 1922. Dedicated to my maternal grandfather. Miles Morris. Born and reared amid pioneer conditions in Grant County, Indiana, the scene of these tales, he played his part in subduing the wild- erness, served the Union throughout the Civil War. Repeatedly wounded then, he was fated to suffer the worst injury — loss of his right arm — in a " sham " battle many years later. His was a lovable nature characterized by great natural goodness and in- finite patience. I owe him very much for the comradeship that was mine from almost my earliest recollections to the time I spread my wings and left the parental nest. Inspiring me by pictures of pioneering and soldiering days, and inuring me to lesser hardships on our excursions, bringing me in contact with a thousand realities of practical every-day life, but withal keep- ing as much as possible in the most interesting wild spots our region afforded, he gave me a companionship that comprised the origin of much that has been fundamental in my later life. 20