Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1903-08-08
DEEP SEA FISHING.
Augusta Citizen Learns To Troll For
Big Pollock.
Will Never Deplete Names Ponds or
Break Fish Laws Again.

Eyes, I've changed my mind about
fishing" said an Augusta citizen to a
Journal reporter, the other day. II
used to think that there was nothing
in salt water to. compare with our
Maine lakes and streams, but my wife
comes from the sea-shore and few
years ago she induced me to spend our
summers there. The first summer, /
didn't do much for few days but
mourn over the fishing. Then l got
acquainted with Uncle Digit Crosby,
one of the local worthless who live on
sea breezes, salt fish and Holsters.
found him working on his boats one
day, and started in on my favorite
theme, fresh-water fishing. Uncle
Digit wouldn't hear of it.
""Talk bout yer fresh water fish bein'
more gamey,' said he putting away i'm
patiently, they orter have some good
p'ints about 'em. Lord knows they're
small enough an skurse enough, too.
These fellers II go off an be gone
whole week. Then they'll come home
with a. couple o. dozen little mizzuble
fish about as long as shale-pin, an
hang 'em up OH a string an brag on
'em as long as they're fit to smell of.
Eat 'em? Lord bless We, no! When
they want any thing!t' eat, they have
ter go to TIL salt water for it. Ye
thought there was fishin' in fresh wa
ter did ye? So there is, I've seen lots
of it, You can fish all the time with
nothin' t. bother We, but the darn of it
| is thure's nothin' t be caught. Yell
see in the newspapers. three pound
| bass" five pound trout" Humph!
Say, young Teller. speakin' of gamey
| fish, did we ever troll for big pollock?
No? Well, sir, I'm goin' tomorrer
| mornin', an, if you really want some
| fishin' that is fishin,' you can come too?
"At two o'clock next morning I babe
farewell to Sleep paid my morning
devotions to Izaak Walton, and started
| for Uncle Dight's fish-house. He was
| waiting for me by the light of a lantern
| These pollocks is early BIRDS he said,
| they've got eyes like a cat an they
| love to siZzle around the tide-rips, jest
as it's comm on light. They're all life,
| these critters. No still fishin' for them
I've seen the water full of 'em, so you
| could gait em, an you couldn't get one
| on a h2nd-line ter save yer soul, but
spoon-hook at daylight IL fetch emp
I'VE pulled the little doubleender
| rapidly down the bay for an hour or So
Uncle Digit regaling me with his
quaint stories of Mister Pollock and
how he was Jest like Mister Mack'rel
only the devil give Mr.. Mack'rel lick
in an that's where his strepes come
| from Uncle Digit is one of the
| characters of the Maine coast and he
would delight the heart of a literary
| man. He is tall, powerfully-built
man, now bowed over with toll and
/ rheumatic; his thin hair and scraggly
| whiskers are red. dpnly a lighter red
| than the. bronze, Of ii his complexion
Uncle Digit has seen life on it's seamy
side for nearly seventy years, and has
| acquired a deal of quaint philosophy.
| When he looks you over with his keen,
| frank, blue eyes, you feel that he is 60
| ing through some of his generaliZing
about this here young Teller One
| young felIer' generalized about him,
once, and wound up by saying He
looks for all the world like boiled
| lobster and that's, as well as | can do
at description. Uncle Dight's color, his
hooked nose, and his great hands, all
| knotted into claws by rheumatism,
make the term apt. For the rest, he is
wise with the lore of the sea, and his
heart is as fresh and pure as the
| breezes.
about three o'clock the gray began
| to show in the east and we could see
| the ocean heaving far free before us.
| We We're almost to the tide-rips around
| Drunken Ledge, that lonely sentinel of
| Hoy leland Vrboro,phfara JTnolo Diubt
set an ash whip in either gunwale and
we paid out our lines astern. Then,
| fastening them to the whips, we rowed
on. Come, Mr. Pollock, time you was
up called Uncle Digit. AS if in ans
wer, his whip bent almost double and
the boat dragged. I've got We, sir
I've got ye! and the, sport was on. Mr..
Pollock cut and sheered, fighting des-
perately for his life, but there was no
slackening that steady pull. The hook
was far down his throat and he came
in, in spite of all he could do. A
| beauty, he was, three feet long if an
| inch, graceful and taper, the dolphin
of our northern seas. Uncle Digit had
three, in as many minutes, / had none
yet and was feeling a bit blue. Sud-
denly a great fish leaped clear out of
water in pursuit of my line. Then it
was 1 who had him. and the line cut
my fingers as he tried to turn on me.
We were in the rips the water was full
of black, darting forms, and there was
no more time for sentiment or measur-
ing. 1t was just row and pull in.
There was no let up to the sport no
mercy in the slaughter, for this is how
Uncle Digit gets his living in summer.
By seven o'clock the doubleender was
loaded, the handsomest catch 1 ever
saw.
" There said Uncle Digit, ever see
anything like that in fresh water fish
in? 1 owned up that 1 never did; and
as I think of the glory of that growing