most interesting game birds in this country. In April, when the snow begins to melt, a change is noticed in the pure white of the winter plumage and brown feathers begin to appear about the head. During the spring and early summer the brown gradually grows, and by the 1st of August a complete metamorphosis has taken place. The bird is then clad in delicately penciled shades of beautiful brown, and by the 1st of September it begins to turn white again. By November 1st it is again entirely white, with the exception of its tail, and the feet and legs are completely covered with fine fur-like feathers. The bird is then ready for the most severe Alaskan winter and seems entirely impervious to the arctic blasts.

It is interesting to note that the change from white to brown begins at the head and goes down and that the change from brown to white begins at the tail and grows upward. At no time when the change is taking place does the ptarmigan cxhibit the rough and ragged appearance of moulting, which is common to most other species of birds. When one feather is about to fall from a ptarmigan another is ready to take its place, and the plumage presents a neat, dressy appearance at all times. If, when the bird is ready to nest in spring, the

AMATEUR PHOTO BY B T. BO EB.

CAUGHT ONCE MORE.

Winner of 22nd Prize in RECREATION'S 8th Annual Photo Competition.

ground is still covered with snow the eggs will be found white, but eggs deposited after the snow disappears are of a mottled brown color. Thus the scheme of protective coloration is admirably carried out in nesting as well as in plumage.

I have captured and domesticated a number of ptarmigan. They have taken kindly to their new homes and have bred well in confinement. I brought several of these birds to the States alive and as far as I know, these are the only specimens thus far imported alive.

I collected and mounted the specimens illustrated herewith, for the purpose of showing the transition from white to brown and from brown to white. The picture shows the average coloring of plumage that prevails nearly every month in the year.

The ptarmigan is the only game bird known that one can eat every day in the year without tiring of it. Perhaps the vigorous appetite developed by the strenuous Alaskan life may account for this fact. However, I should not wish anyone to think I have eaten these birds every day or that I would approve of such a course, for no one realizes more thoroughly than I the necessity of protecting our Alaskan birds and animals. A. H. Dunham, Nome, Alaska.

Said the washwoman: To be able to dance all night, and lie abed as long as I wanted to the next morning.

Said the soldier: To live peaceably all the rest of my life.

The sailor: To feel the solid earth under my feet for the rest of my days.

The artist: To paint a picture to please myself, and not the public.

The author: To have time enough to think.

The diplomat: To be myself.

The journalist: To tell the truth.

The wise man: To be a fool. The fool: To be a wise man.

-Life.

B.

The brook trout in the aquarium at Battery park did it.

As I watched them lazily flashing to and fro, their pink spots but faintly showing in the uncertain light, my spirit floated miles and miles away to a pool that lay, calm and serene, in the heart of the Northumberland hills; a pool whose clear waters were fed by a rollicking stream brawling through miles of green meadows, tangled thickets of birch and cedar and somber clusters of pine and hemlock.

I felt sorry for the imprisoned trout that afternoon in early May. They had an unhealthy look; the backs and sides of some were scarred and bruised by rough handling and transferring. I wondered if they were thinking, as I was, of a cool stream, now rippling over flat, smooth stones, now plunging down a miniature precipice, then rushing madly through tortuous windings where green alders kissed the foam-flecked

water.

The occupants of the other tanks in the aquarium received scant attention from me that afternoon. The muskalonge staring with meaningless eyes through the glass, the slimy, motionless catfish, the brilliant tribe from Bermuda waters, the sportive, water-spouting seal; all were passed with a hasty glance, for the woods and streams were calling me and I would fain be with them.

The trees in the park were clad in brilliant green, the waters sparkled in the sunlight, while overhead the skies were hung with clouds that looked like the fleecy drapery of a bride; but Broadway was pulsing with fretful life. Street hawkers cried their wares with raucous voices, trolley cars passed with clanging bells, and overhead the elevated trains rumbled incessantly. Dirt, dust and disorder were everywhere this spring afternoon. On other days I saw but the usual accompaniment of a busy street in a great city. The brook trout did it.

The evening of the next day found me at the station of a small town in Canada, and 15 minutes after my arrival I was shaking hands with Adolphe, the worthy host of the Royal and my erstwhile trusty hunting companion. On Adolphe's head the seasons of nearly 60 years rested lightly. He saw my rod in its covering, the bulge of a fly-book in my pocket, then, looking into my eager face, he understood it all. "I got t'ree dozen beauties yesterday," he said, "an' the biggest she weigh one, 2 poun'."

After a hearty meal we lighted our pipes,

and throwing our fishing gear into a waiting buckboard, started for the pond, with a small tent firmly strapped to the back of the vehicle.

Night was falling, but soon a full moon rolled above the horizon, flooding the landscape with light and bringing into bold relief the objects around us. Bars rattled as the cows were driven into pastures, ankle deep in luxuriant grass. Lights were gleaming in farmhouses by the roadside, where weary laborers were resting after a long day in the fields. A tired looking man stood on a high stand by the side of a farm gate, one hand holding a milk pail, the other the uplifted cover of a tall, shining

can.

He looked after us wistfully, seeing our rods and baskets in the rig.

Presently we labored up a steep hill, on the other side of which lay the pond. The moon, well up in the heavens, shone on its polished surface SO that it resembled a gigantic mirror lying between the hills. Its edges were bordered with white birch and cedar, and by listening we could hear the water falling over the edge of the dam. There was a sweet, luscious smell of something undefinable in the air. The earth seemed teeming with freshness. The home of my boyhood had been a few miles from here, and I knew that in a circle, the extreme edge of which in any direction was not more than 5 miles from the hill on which we stood, there nestled 7 such ponds. The sides of the hills and the bottoms of the valleys were wet and sappy with live springs. One could feel their delicious coolness from afar. It was literally the home of the brook trout. Many a time, when a small boy, I had trudged wearily homeward beneath the weight of a mighty string of royal trout from these ponds.

Meanwhile, we descended the other side of the hill, let down a snake fence, or a portion of it, and drove through a pasture field; then, driving the length of a shady lane we penetrated a fringe of cedars and drew up at the grass bordered edge of the pool.

In a few minutes the horse was tied to a tree, the tent in position, a brisk fire sparkling in front of it, and, over the fire, a spluttering pan of bacon, whose appetizing odor, aided by the spicy, aromatic fragrance of the evergreens, made us ravenously hungry.

Have you ever fished for trout by moonlight when the shadows of logs and bushes make deep, trouty looking holes, so that

your heart fairly teeters with anticipation; and when, your nerves all thrilling, you threw your line well out and let the feathery bait kiss the water were you rewarded by a lunging rise that started the blood mantling to your forehead?

I have. I fished that night with my friend Adolphe, and when midnight stole on us we were fain to ease our shoulders of the weighty baskets, for behold, they were almost full.

There is a fascination about moonlight fishing that almost dulls the lustre of daylight sport. You get your pipe well started, you pull on your waders and step into the pool. The water ripples away from your feet in a thousand sparkles of light. The moon's image is distorted, and the ripples are carried on until they lap the great moss-covered log that stretches half way across the pool.

We fished with worms that night, as I had found by experience that the trout in this locality rarely rose to the fly after nightfall. I baited a small hook with an angle worm, and, throwing it well out, let it sink slowly to the bottom. Instantly there was a quick, saucy tug; not the wavering, unmistakable yank of the nerch, the surging pull of the black bass, or the dull, heavy strain of the pickerel; but the soul-stirring, gladsome tug of the brook trout. I knew just what the gentleman had done. He had seen the succulent morsel descending through the clear waters. He had dashed at it instantly, seized it, turned his body with a lightning flirt of his tail and

dashed for home; but before he reached the shelter of the big log the hook had been sent home and the gallant veteran was battling for his life and freedom. Now making frantic endeavors to shake himself free from the keen barbed hook, now heavily surging from one side of the pool to the other. He struggled bravely. But gradually I worked him toward me and soon had the satisfaction of seeing him within arms' length, his silvery contour showing plainly in the bright moonlight, and each drop of water scattered by his threshing movements reflecting the yellow rays in a thousand sparkles of light. A final swoop of the net, and he was mine.

Nor was my friend Adolphe less successful at his end of the pond. We had no lack of sport, and when tired of it, we hung our treasures in a tree, away from prowling mink and weasel, and lay down beside the glowing fire, not so much for the sake of warmth as for the delightful feeling of comfort it afforded us. It was with feelings of satisfaction we reviewed the evening's events.

I will not dwell on the sport of the following day, as it was but a repetition of the previous evening. In all we secured about 4 score trout, many single ones weighing upward of a pound.

It is a fair spot to me, that little pond between the Northumberland hills, and I shall always turn to it as an oasis in the desert of my daily toil; longing for the day when again I shall wet my line in its limpid

waters.

One of the most enjoyable trips I ever had was in company with J-, an old college chum and an ardent angler. We had determined to make the trip from V-, on the North bank of the Columbia, to Lewis river, a distance of 40 miles on our wheels.

One April morning we set out; our blankets strapped to our handle bars, our rods to the frame, and our provisions to our backs. For a few miles the road was excellent, but after entering the dense forest, with which all Southern Washington is cov ered, it became quite muddy, and we could make only about 6 miles an hour. After 10 miles of this hard pedaling, we again emerged into the open country. Here and there along the road we passed a log house, occasionally a frame one, surrounded by blooming apple, peach and prune trees.

We then began the ascent of the watershed between the Columbia river and Lewis river. The latter finally breaks through the range and joins the Columbia. An hour's hard riding took us to the summit, and we were soon spinning across the bridge which spans Lewis river at Louisville.

We followed the road up the river for a mile, and taking a wood road, soon found ourselves on the bank of the Lewis; a river in name only, where we were, for there it was but a mountain stream. Before fishing we ate our lunch and prepared everything, so that on our return at dark we would be in readiness for supper, and would not have to grope in the dark for wood and bedding.

After putting on our wading togs and gathering a supply of periwinkles, the best bait for trout in early spring, we began fishing. With varying success we worked our way down stream, taking alternate ripples; each succeeding in catching about 10 trout to the ripple, varying in length from 8 to 19 inches. We stopped 2 miles down stream to compare catches. I found, to my delight, that I had the most fish, as well as the largest. I had 27; my companion, 29. It was then 5 o'clock, and having as many fish as we cared to clean that evening, we decided to go a little farther down to a large deep pool, and have a swim. As we came out from our last plunge, J— suddenly exclaimed: "What a whopper!" Turning, I got a glimpse of a silvery flash near a clump of overhanging bushes, a little down stream from where we were, on the other side of the pool. A big trout evidently lay in hiding there. It was, however, impossible to drop a fly near the

clump from our side of the stream. Trusting to find a ledge projecting into the water from the cliff on the other side, J— seized his pole and swam across. Cautiously feeling his way, he proceeded down stream to the place where the trout had risen. Luckily he found a footing when about 30 feet from the clump; and, grasping a bunch of ferns on the side of the cliff, he made a cast. The bait had not yet touched the water when, with a bright gleam and loud splash, the trout jumped to meet it. Then began a lively battle. Holding the rod in one hand, and grasping the frail support with the other, J was at considerable disadvantage. Had he not been provided with an automatic reel, the fish would have never been added to his catch. As it was, after repeated rushes it became completely wearied. Still keeping the line taut Jswam back to where I was standing, and landed his prize. It was one of the largest trout I have ever seen, measuring 23 inches.

Returning to camp, well satisfied with our day's sport, we cooked some of the smaller fish for supper; the larger ones we salted and packed in wet fern leaves. Then placing 2 big logs on the fire, we sought our blankets and fell asleep.

On awakening the next morning we hastily prepared breakfast, and putting up a lunch, set out. We regained the road and followed it 5 miles, then cut through the woods back to the stream, intending to fish down the stream to camp. In a sheet of still water we gathered a good supply of periwinkles.

The trout were fairly ravenous, 6 or 8 'sometimes striking at the flies at the same time. It was a frequent occurrence to hook 2 at one cast; and now and then we would find 3, one on each hook. When we stopped for lunch at noon our baskets were nearly filled. To make room for more, We cleaned our catch, and found we had between us 55 trout, from 8 to 16 inches in length.

As

On resuming our fishing we found the trout were not biting so well as in the morning, but still we had fair luck. we neared camp, my hopes for a bigger fish than my friend had captured began to dwindle. It happened, however, the last ripple fell to me. J- sat on the bank watching. At that point the stream was exceedingly swift, and it was difficult to get a firm footing. The channel was almost choked with large boulders, between which the water flowed as in a mill race.

Standing on one of the smaller rocks I dropped my line in the eddy formed in the

lee of a large boulder. The back current whirled the line under the rock. At first I thought the line had caught, but was soon undeceived. With almost a shriek the line flew from the reel; 2 bright bodies sprang from the water, showing I had in truth a full line. In that swift water even a small trout could pull well; and those 2 big ones were a team. Three times my spirits sank as the trout went down stream, taking all but a few yards of the line, and

AMATEUR PHOTO BY H. W. SQUIER. COON.

Winner of 45th Prize in RECREATION's 8th Annual Photo Competition.

A dozen operations

A day was not such fun. The doctor didn't stop to eat,He could only cut and run.

-Life.