University of Virginia Library

ARROW-FISHING.

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 either 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 spring-time; have disappeared long
before the sere and yellow leaf of autumn appears, and
the huntsman's horn, and the loud-mouthed pack, clamor
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
an 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 trunks of 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 favors 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 awhile his bark where, in
the fall of the year, the gay-plumed songster and the
hungry hawk plunge mid-air, 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,
—they thus choose these temporary sylvan lakes as
depositories of their spawn; thus wittingly providing
against that destruction that 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 taken from the
forest would perceptibly alter the vegetation.

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 only, perhaps, would
pass, when the narrow bar would intrude 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.[1]

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 sparkling
for an instant 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 that it comes from
an old stump, and is denominated a dead bubble. That
“simmering” was made by some comfortable turtle, as

he opened his mouth and gave 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 that 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 that
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
taken, that vary from three to ten pounds, in weight;
but as they are full of bones and coarse in flesh, they
are killed simply to test the skill of the arrow-fisherman.
[2]

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 which 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 looks 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, in solid columns,
down into its very throat. 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), and 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, about the size of a crow-quill, fifteen
or twenty feet long, is attached to the spear, 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 humor
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.

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 quickly turned. 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.

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 with any other water-craft of the
world.

In arrow-fishing, two persons are only 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.

[ILLUSTRATION]

"The bowman draws his arrow to the head."—page 66.

[Description: 468EAF. Image of two men hunting from a boat on a small river. One man is paddling while the other is standing in the boat pulling an arrow back in it's bow. They are surrounded by trees and ivy.]

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. Beside 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,
that 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 him 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 sportive 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 colored 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;
this buzzard revels on his carcass, and every piscator
contemplates, with disgust, the great enemy to his game,
this 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 our Northern States, impossible.

The veriest tyro, who finds a delicate reed in every
nook that casts a shadow in the water, with his rough
line, and coarser hook, can catch fish. The greedy
perch, in all its beautiful varieties, swim eagerly and
swiftly 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 bough, the rank
grass, the sunken log, the far reaching melumbium, the
ever still water, make these delicate appliances useless.

Arrow-fishing only, of all the angling in the interior
streams of the southwest, 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 regarding the
early history of arrow-fishing, and he told us, that it was
“invented by 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 difference '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 yerly times in his history, when he tuck Inguns
and other varmints, in the same way.”