University of Virginia Library

PISCATORY ARCHERY.[1]

In treating of the most beautiful and novel sport
of arrow-fishing, its incidents are so interwoven

with ten thousand accessories, that we scarce know
how to separate our web without breaking it, or
destroying a world of interest hidden among the wilds
of the American forest. The lakes over which the
arrow-fisher twangs his bow, in the pleasant springtime,
have disappeared long before the sere and yellow
leaf of autumn appears, and the huntsman's horn
and the loud-mouthed pack clamour melodiously
after the scared deer upon their bottoms. To explain
this phenomenon, the lover of nature must follow
us until we exhibit some of the vagaries of the great
Mississippi; and, having fairly got our “flood and
field” before us, we will engage heartily in the sport.

If you will descend with me from slightly broken
ground through which we have been riding, covered
with forest trees singularly choked up with
undergrowth, to an expanse of country beautifully
open between the trees, the limbs of which start out
from the trunk, some thirty feet above the ground,
you will find at your feet a herbage that is luxuriant,
but scanty; high over your head, upon the trees, you
will perceive a line marking what has evidently been
an overflow of water; you can trace the beautiful
level upon the trees as far as the eye can reach. It
is in the fall of the year, and a squirrel drops an
acorn upon your shoulder, and about your feet are
the sharp-cut tracks of the nimble deer. You are
standing in the centre of what is called, by hunters,
a “dry lake.” As the warm air of April favours
the opening flowers of spring, the waters of the
Mississippi, increased by the melting snows of the
north, swell within its low banks, and rush in a

thousand streams back into the swamps and lowlands
that lie upon its borders; the torrent sweeps along into
the very reservoir in which we stand, and the waters
swell upwards until they find a level with the fountain
itself. Thus is formed the arrow-fisher's lake.
The brawny oak, the graceful pecan, the tall poplar,
and delicate beech spring from its surface in a thousand
tangled limbs, looking more beautiful, yet most
unnatural, as the water reflects them downwards,
hiding completely away their submerged trunks. The
arrow-fisher now peeps in the nest of the wild bird
from his little boat, and runs its prow plump into the
hollow that marks the doorway of some cunning
squirrel. In fact, he navigates for a while, his bark
where, in the fall of the year, the gay-plumed songster
and the hungry hawk plunge midair, and float
not more swiftly nor gayly, on light pinioned wings,
than he in his swift canoe.

A chapter from nature: and who unfolds the great
book so understandingly, and learns so truly from its
wisdom, as the piscator? The rippling brook as it
dances along in the sunshine bears with it the knowledge,
there is truthfulness in water, though it be not
in a well. We can find something, if we will, to
love and admire under every wave; and the noises
of every tiny brook are tongues that speak eloquently
to nature's true priests.

We have marked that, with the rise of the waters
the fish grow gregarious, and that they rush along
in schools with the waters that flow inland from the
river, that they thus choose these temporary sylvan
lakes as depositories of their spawn; thus wittingly

providing against that destruction which would
await their young in the highways of their journeyings.
It is a sight to wonder at in the wilds of the
primitive forest, to see the fish rushing along the
narrow inlets, with the current, in numbers incredible
to the imagination, leaping over the fallen tree
that is only half buried in the surface of the stream,
or stayed a moment in their course by the meshes
of the strong net, either bursting it by force of numbers,
or granting its wasteful demands by thousands,
without seemingly to diminish the multitude more
than a single leaf would, taken from its foliage.
We have marked, too, that these fish would besport
themselves in their new homes, secluding themselves
in the shadows of the trees and banks; and,
as the summer heats come on, they would grow unquiet;
the outlets leading to the great river they
had left would be thronged by what seemed to be
busy couriers; and when the news finally spread
of falling water, one night would suffice to make the
lake, before so thronged with finny life, deserted; and
a few nights, perhaps, will only pass, when the narrow
bar will obtrude itself between the inland lake and
the river that supplied it with water. Such was the
fish's wisdom, seen and felt, where man, with his
learning and his nicely wrought mechanisms, would
watch in vain the air, the clouds, and see “no signs”
of falling water.[2]

Among arrow-fishermen there are technicalities,
an understanding of which will give a more ready
idea of the sport. The surfaces of these inland lakes
are unruffled by the winds or storms; the heats of
the sun seem to rest upon them; they are constantly
sending into the upper regions warm mists. Their
surfaces, however, are covered with innumerable
bubbles, either floating about, or breaking into
little circling ripples. To the superficial observer
these air-bubbles mean little or nothing; to the arrow-fisherman,
they are the very language of his art;
visible writing upon the unstable water, unfolding
the secrets of the depths below, and guiding him,
with unerring certainty, in his pursuits.

Seat yourself quietly in this little skiff, and while
I paddle quietly out into the lake, I will translate to
you these apparent wonders, and give you a lesson
in the simple language of nature. “An air-bubble is
an air-bubble,” you say, and “your fine distinctions
must be in the imagination.” Well! then mark how
stately ascends that large globule of air; if you will
time each succeeding one by your watch, you will
find that while they appear, it is at regular intervals,
and when they burst upon the surface of the water,

there is the least spray in the world for an instant
sparkling in the sun. Now, yonder, if you will observe,
are very minute bubbles that seem to simmer
towards the surface. Could you catch the air of
the first bubble we noticed, and give it to an ingenious
chemist, he would tell you that it was a light
gas, that exhaled from decaying vegetable matter.
The arrow-fisherman will tell you they come from
an old stump, and are denominated dead bubbles.
That “simmering” was made by some comfortable
turtle, as he gaps open his mouth and gives his
breath to the surrounding element.

Look ahead of you: when did you ever see an
Archimedean screw more beautifully marked out
than by that group of bubbles? They are very light,
indeed, and seem thus gracefully to struggle into the
upper world; they denote the eager workings of
some terrapin in the soft mud at the bottom of the
lake. In the shade of yonder lusty oak you will
perceive what arrow-fishermen call a “feed;” you
see the bubbles are entirely unlike any we have noticed;
they come rushing upwards swiftly, like handfuls
of silver shot. They are lively and animated
to look at, and are caused by the fish below, as they,
around the root of that very oak, search for insects
for food. To those bubbles the arrow-fisherman
hastens for game: they are made by the fish he calls
legitimate for his sport.

In early spring the fish are discovered, not only
by the bubbles they make, but by various sounds
uttered while searching for food. These sounds are

familiarized, and betray the kind of fish that make
them. In late spring, from the middle of May to
June, the fish come near the surface of the water
and expose their mouths to the air, keeping up, at
the same time, a constant motion with it, called
“piping.” Fish thus exposed are in groups, and
are called a “float.” The cause of this phenomenon
is hard to explain, all reasons given being unsatisfactory.
As it is only exhibited in the hottest of
weather, it may be best accounted for in the old
verse:

There are several kinds of fish that attract the attention
of the arrow-fishermen. Two kinds only
are professedly pursued, the “carp” and the “buffalo.”
Several others, however, are attacked for
the mere purpose of amusement, among which we
may mention a species of perch, and the most extraordinary
of all fish, the “gar.”

The carp is a fish known to all anglers. Its
habits must strike every one familiar with them, as
being eminently in harmony with the retreats we
have described. In these lakes they vary in weight
from five to thirty pounds, and are preferred by arrow-fishermen
to all other fish. The “buffalo,” a sort of
fresh-water sheep's-head, is held next in estimation.
A species of perch is also destroyed, that vary from
three to ten pounds; but as they are full of bones

and coarse in flesh, they are killed simply to test
the skill of the arrow-fisherman.[3]

The incredible increase of fishes has been a matter
of immemorial observation. In the retired lakes and
streams we speak of, but for a wise arrangement of
Providence, it seems not improbable that they would
outgrow the very space occupied by the element in
which they exist. To prevent this consummation,
there are fresh-water fiends, more terrible than the
wolves and tigers of the land, that prowl on the finny
tribe with an appetite commensurate with their plentifulness,
destroying millions in a day, yet leaving,
from their abundance, untold numbers to follow their
habits and the cycle of their existence undisturbed.

These terrible destroyers have no true representatives
in the sea; they seem to be peculiar to waters tributary
to the Mississippi. There are two kinds of
them, alike in office, but distinct in species; they
are known by those who fish in the streams they inhabit
as the “gar.” They are, when grown to their
full size, twelve or fifteen feet in length, voracious
monsters to look at, so well made for strength, so
perfectly protected from assault, so capable of inflicting
injury. The smaller kind, growing not larger
than six feet, have a body that somewhat resembles in
form the pike, covered by what look more like large
flat heads of wrought iron, than scales, which it is
impossible to remove without cutting them out, they
are so deeply imbedded in the flesh. The jaws of
this monster form about one-fourth of its whole
length; they are shaped like the bill of a goose,
armed in the interior with triple rows of teeth, as
sharp and well set as those of a saw. But the terror
is the “alligator gar,” a monster that seems to combine
all the most destructive powers of the shark and
the reptile. The alligator gar grows to the enormous
length of fifteen feet; its head resembles the alligator's;
within its wide-extended jaws glisten innumerable
rows of teeth, running down into its very throat in
solid columns. Blind in its instinct to destroy, and
singularly tenacious of life, it seems to prey with
untiring energy, and with an appetite that is increased
by gratification. Such are the fish that are made
victims of the mere sport of the arrow-fisherman.

The implements of the arrow-fisherman are a
strong bow, five or six feet long, made of black

locust or of cedar, (the latter being preferred.) An
arrow of ash, three feet long, pointed with an iron
spear of peculiar construction. The spear is eight
inches long, one end has a socket, in which is fitted
loosely the wooden shaft; the other end is a flattened
point; back of this point there is inserted the barb,
which shuts into the iron as it enters an object, but
will open if attempted to be drawn out. The whole
of this iron-work weighs three ounces. A cord is
attached to the spear, fifteen or twenty feet long,
about the size of a crow quill, by which is held the
fish when struck.

Of the water-craft used in arrow-fishing, much
might be said, as it introduces the common Indian
canoe, or as it is familiarly termed, the “dug out,”
which is nothing more than a trunk of a tree, shaped
according to the humour or taste of its artificer, and
hollowed out. We have seen some of these rude
barks that claimed but one degree of beauty or
utility beyond the common log, and we have seen
others as gracefully turned as was ever the bosom of
the loving swan, and that would, as gracefully as
Leda's bird, spring through the rippling waves. To
the uninitiated, the guidance of a canoe is a mystery.
The grown-up man, who first attempts to move on
skates over the glassy ice, has a command of his
limbs, and a power of locomotion, that the novice
in canoe navigation has not. Never at rest, it seems
to rush from under his feet; overbalanced by an

overdrawn breath, it precipitates its victim into the
water. Every effort renders it more and more unmanageable,
until it is condemned as worthless. But
let a person accustomed to its movements take it in
charge, and it gayly launches into the stream; whether
standing or sitting, the master has it entirely under
his control, moving any way with a quickness, a pliability,
quite wonderful, forward, sideways, backwards;
starting off in an instant, or while at the
greatest speed, instantly stopping still, and doing all
this more perfectly than any other water-craft of the
world. The arrow-fisher prefers a canoe with very
little rake, quite flat on the bottom, and not more
than fifteen feet long, so as to be turned quick. Place
in this simple craft the simpler paddle, lay beside it
the arrow, the bow, the cord, and you have the whole
outfit of the arrow-fisherman.

In arrow-fishing, two persons only are employed;
each one has his work designated—“the paddler”
and “bowman.” Before the start is made, a perfect
understanding is had, so that their movements
are governed by signs. The delicate canoe is pushed
into the lake, its occupants scarcely breathe to get it
balanced, the paddler is seated in its bottom, near
its centre, where he remains, governing the canoe in
all its motions, without ever taking the paddle from
the water. The fisherman stands at the bow; around
the wrist of his left hand is fastened, by a loose loop,
the cord attached to the arrow, which cord is wound
around the forefinger of the same hand, so that
when paying off, it will do so easily. In the same
hand is, of course, held the bow. In the right, is

carried the arrow, and by its significant pointing, the
paddler gives directions for the movements of the
canoe. The craft glides along, scarcely making a
ripple; a “feed” is discovered, over which the canoe
stops; the bowman draws his arrow to the head;
the game, disturbed, is seen in the clear water rising
slowly and perpendicularly, but otherwise perfectly
motionless; the arrow speeds its way; in an instant
the shaft shoots into the air, and floats quietly away,
while the wounded fish, carrying the spear in its
body, endeavours to escape. The “pull” is managed
so as to come directly from the bow of the canoe;
it lasts but for a moment before the transfixed
fish is seen, fins playing, and full of agonizing life,
dancing on the top of the water, and in another instant
more lies dead at the bottom of the canoe. The
shaft is then gone after, picked up, and thrust into
the spear; the cord is again adjusted, and the canoe
moves towards the merry makers of those swift ascending
bubbles, so brightly displaying themselves
on the edge of that deep shade, cast by yonder evergreen
oak.

There is much in the associations of arrow-fishing
that gratifies taste, and makes it partake of a refined
and intellectual character. Besides the knowledge
it gives of the character of fishes, it practises one in
the curious refractions of water. Thus will the
arrow-fisherman, from long experience, drive his
pointed shaft a fathom deep for game, when it would
seem, to the novice, a few inches would be more
than sufficient. Again, the waters that supply the
arrow-fisherman with game, afford subsistence to innumerable

birds, and he has exhibited before him
the most beautiful displays of their devices to catch
the finny tribe. The kingfisher may be seen the
livelong day, acting a prominent part, bolstering up
its fantastic topknot, as if to apologize for a manifest
want of neck; you can hear it always scolding and
clamorous among the low brush, and overhanging
limits of trees, eyeing the minnows as they glance
along the shore, and making vain essays to fasten
them in his bill. The hawk, too, often swoops
down from the clouds, swift as the bolt of Jove;
the cleft air whistles in the flight; the sporting fish
playing in the sunlight is snatched up in the rude
talons, and borne aloft, the reeking water from its
scaly sides falling in soft spray upon the upturned
eye that traces its daring course. But we treat of
fish, and not of birds.

Yonder is our canoe; the paddle has stopped it
short, just where you see those faint bubbles; the
water is very deep beneath them, and reflects the
frail bark and its occupants, as clearly as if they
were floating in mid-air. The bowman looks into
the water—the fish are out of sight, and not disturbed
by the intrusion above them. They are eating busily,
judging from the ascending bubbles. The
bowman lets fall the “heel” of his arrow on the
bottom of the canoe, and the bubbles instantly cease.
The slight tap has made a great deal of noise in the
water, though scarcely heard out of it. There can be
seen rising to the surface a tremendous carp. How
quietly it comes upwards, its pectoral fins playing
like the wings of the sportive butterfly. Another

moment, and the cold iron is in its body. Paralyzed
for an instant, the fish rises to the surface as if dead,
then, recovering itself, it rushes downwards, until the
cord that holds it prisoner tightens, and makes the
canoe tremble; the effort has destroyed it, and without
another struggle it is secured.

When the fish first come into the lakes, they move
in pairs on the surface of the water, and while so
doing they are shot, as it is called, “flying.” In
early spring fifteen or twenty fish are secured in an
hour. As the season advances, three or four taken
in the same length of time is considered quite good
success. To stand upon the shore, and see the arrow-fisherman
busily employed, is a very interesting
exhibition of skill, and of the picturesque. The little
“dug out” seems animate with intelligence; the
bowman draws his long shaft, you see it enter the
water, and then follows the glowing sight of the fine
fish sparkling in the sun, as if sprinkled with diamonds.
At times, too, when legitimate sport tires,
some ravenous gar that heaves in sight is made a
victim; aim is taken just ahead of his dorsal fin;
secured, he flounders a while, and then drags off the
canoe as if in harness, skimming it almost out of the
water with his speed. Fatigued, finally, with his
useless endeavours to escape, he will rise to the surface,
open his huge mouth, and gasp for air. The
water that streams from his jaws will be coloured
with blood from the impaled fish that still struggle
in the terrors of his barbed teeth. Rushing ahead
again, he will, by eccentric movements, try the best
skill of the paddler to keep his canoe from overturning

into the lake, a consummation not always
unattained. The gar finally dies, and is dragged
ashore; the buzzard revels on his carcass, and every
piscator contemplates, with disgust, the great enemy
to his game, the terrible monarch of the fresh-water
seas.

The crumbling character of the alluvial banks
that line our southern streams, the quantity of fallen
timber, the amount of “snags” and “sawyers,” and
the great plentifulness of game, make the beautiful
art of angling, as pursued in England, impossible.
The veriest tyro, who finds a delicate reed in every
nook that casts a shadow on the water, with his
rough line, and coarser hook, can catch fish. The
greedy perch, in all its beautiful varieties, swim
eagerly and quickly around the snare, and swallow
it, without suspicion that a worm is not a worm, or
that appearances are ever deceitful. The jointed
rod, the scientific reel, cannot be used; the thick
hanging bow, the rank grass, the sunken log, the far
reaching melumbrium, the ever still water, make these
delicate appliances useless. Arrow-fishing only, of
all the angling in the interior streams of the south-west,
comparatively speaking, claims the title of an
art, as it is pursued with a skill and a thorough
knowledge that tell only with the experienced, and
to the novice is an impossibility.

The originators of arrow-fishing deserve the credit
of striking out a rare and beautiful amusement, when
the difficulties of securing their game did not require
it, showing that it resulted in the spirit of true sport
alone.

The origin of arrow-fishing we know not; the
country where it is pursued is comparatively of recent
settlement; scarce three generations have passed
away within its boundaries. We asked the oldest
piscator that lived in the vicinity of these “dry
lakes” for information, and he told us that it was
“old Uncle Zac,” and gave us his history in a brief
and pathetic manner, concluding his reminiscences
of the great departed as follows:

“Uncle Zac never know'd nothing 'bout flies, or
tickling trout, but it took him to tell the differance
'twixt a yarth-worm, a grub, or the young of a
wasp's nest; in fact, he know'd fishes amazin', and
bein' natur-ally a hunter, he went to shooten 'em with
a bow and arrer, to keep up yearly times in his
history, when he tuck inguns, and yerther varmints
in the same way.”