The next step is to learn how to cast a fly, and here practice and the advice of some experienced fly-fisherman will be worth more than printed instructions.
It is not necessary, however, to wait for summer nor for access to water, in order to practice casting. A housetop, a dooryard, or even the spacious floor of an old-fashioned barn, as the case may be, offers just as good a chance for practice as a lake or river. When the rod is jointed together, the reel attached, and the line passed through the rings and beyond the tip about the length of the rod, the learner is usually seized with a wild desire to flourish rod and line like a whip with a long snapper. This feeling must promptly be suppressed. Fly-casting is a very simple movement, and not a flourish. The elbow is kept down at the side, the forearm moving only a little, and most of the work is done by the wrist. Holding the rod by the "grip," the part of the butt wound with silk or rattan to assist the grasp, one finds that the reel, which is just below the "grip," aids in balancing the rod. The reel is underneath in casting. After hooking a fish, many anglers turn their rods so as to bring the reel to the upper side, thus letting the strain of the line come upon the rod itself instead of upon the rings. In holding the "grip," the thumb should be extended straight along the rod, as this gives an additional "purchase." For the first cast, take the end of the line in the left hand, and bring the rod upward and backward until the line is taut. As you release the line, the spring of the rod carries the line backward. This is the back cast. Then comes an instant's pause, while the line straightens itself out behind, and then, with a firm motion of the wrist, helped a little by the forearm, the rod is thrown forward, and the line flies easily out in front. Begin with a line once or once-and-a-half as long as the rod, and lengthen it out by degrees. The main points to be remembered are: to keep the elbow at the side, to train the wrist, to move the rod not too far forward or back, always to wait until the line is straight behind on the back cast, and to make sure that in this the line falls no lower than your head, a process which it will take time to accomplish. There is no more awkward fault than that of whipping a rod down to a level with the horizon before and behind, and swishing the flies through the air until some of them are snapped off.
When the learner becomes accustomed to handling his rod, he must try to perfect himself in two matters of great importance—accuracy and delicacy. Place a small piece of paper fifteen or twenty feet away, and aim at making the knot in the end of the line fall easily and quietly upon it. Your efforts will be aided if you will raise the point of the rod a trifle, just as the forward impulse of the line is spent, and the line itself is straightened in the air for an instant in front. This is a novel kind of target-shooting, but its usefulness will be realized when the angler finds it necessary to drop his flies so lightly just over the head of some particularly wary trout, that the fish, although too shy or lazy to move a yard, will be persuaded that some tempting natural flies have foolishly settled on the water just within reach of his jaws. By practice of this kind, which is an excellent form of light exercise in itself, any boy or girl can learn a very fascinating art. It is not necessary to make very long casts. At fly-casting tournaments in Central Park, casts have been made of about ninety feet, but in actual fishing a third of that distance is usually sufficient. Never cast more line than you can conveniently and safely handle.
CAPTURING TWO FISH AT ONCE,—OR "LANDING A DOUBLE."
And now that we are ready to go a-fishing, the question arises, "Where shall we go?" The cold, bitter weather common in early April is not favorable to fishermen or fish. When May sunshine brings the leaves out on the trees, and fields are green and skies are blue, then Long Island may well tempt any New York boy who has a holiday to spend in fly-fishing. Years ago, any Long Island water could be fished without question, but now nearly all the Long Island brooks and ponds are "preserved,"—that is, kept for personal use by clubs or private owners. A boy who has a friend or relative among the owners of these preserves, or can hire a fishing privilege, can enjoy trout-fishing within a journey of two or three hours from his New York home. Within a few hours' ride, also, are trout streams in the southern counties of New York State and in Pennsylvania, although the former are so often visited that the fish have not time to grow large. The New England boy finds trout brooks in western Connecticut, in northern Massachusetts, and in the Cape Cod region, in northern New Hampshire and Vermont, and especially in Maine. Once, almost every stream and lake in New England contained trout. But forests were cut down, and some of the streams dwindled until they went dry in summer. Saw-mills were built, the streams were dammed up so as to be impassable for trout, and the trout eggs were buried under sawdust. Manufactories have poisoned the water of some rivers and others have been literally "fished dry." The trout of any brook near a large New England town have a very poor chance of long life. All this is discouraging enough, but yet there are trout to be caught, as every New England boy knows.
The most famous fishing-places in the East are the Rangeley Lakes in Maine and the Adirondacks in New York. About the third week of May the ice goes out of the great chain of lakes forming the head-waters of the Androscoggin River in Maine. Then the red-shirted river-drivers come down with "drives" of logs, which dash through the sluiceways of immense dams between the different lakes. And while the brown pine trunks are still shooting through the dams, fishermen begin to gather from all parts of the country, for in the clear cold water of these lakes the trout, feeding upon myriads of minnows, grow to be the giants of their race. I can wish no better piscatorial fortune for the children of St. Nicholas than a visit to Maine with father or brother, and the capture of one of these large trout. I must confess, however, that the large trout are not to be depended upon; but there are small fish always to be caught in the little lakes and brooks of the region, and there are pleasant forest camps with cheerful fires blazing in great stone fireplaces. The host of one of these camps was for a long time a hunter and guide, and every winter he lectures before Boston schoolboys, dressed in his hunter's garb, and tells them about trapping and the adventures of life in the woods.
INTERIOR OF A FISHING-CAMP.
If one can continue further into the North-east, better fishing can be found in New Brunswick and Quebec than in Maine, although the trout of the Provinces are sea trout, a distinction which does not seem to me important. The trout of the Adirondacks are much smaller than those of Maine or New Brunswick, and now that the Adirondack country is overrun with visitors, one must go back some distance into the woods to find good sport. South of Pennsylvania, there is trout-fishing in the mountain streams of West Virginia and North Carolina. To the west, northern Michigan tempts the angler, and still further north are the large trout of the Nepigon river which flows into Lake Superior. The States along the Mississippi Valley are sadly deficient in trout, but a great deal can be done with black bass, as Mr. Maurice Thompson has told you. Trout abound all along the Rocky Mountains. There are the lusty five-pounders of the Snake River in Idaho, the rainbow trout of California, found also, I think, in Colorado, and the dusky fish of New Mexico and Arizona. I do not expect that many of St. Nicholas's readers will visit these remote fishing-places, but between the three corners of the continent in which I have caught trout—Quebec, Washington Territory, and Arizona—there are so many chances for trout-fishing, that very few need fail to enjoy this most delightful of outdoor sports.