work-not altogether philanthropic as I have seen them sitting on this fish out at sea.

The big fish is covered with a mucous envelope in which various parasites appear to thrive. One I caught had even in its mouth a long goose barnacle which swung, just escaping the large ivory teeth. At night this envelope becomes luminous, the fish gleaming with the pale light described an extraordinary sight, as all about are luminous bodies,-stars, comets, and lesser lights, the whole sea ablaze,-in which is the great living moon, swinging slowly along, or adrift among the lesser constellations of the sea.

By no stretch of the imagination can the sun or moonfish be included as game. It is a freak, its capture possible only with boat-hook, gaff, or spear, and then it is an accomplishment to be classed with extreme hard work; an adventure strenuous and exciting, more like roping cattle than fishing, yet in a way an interesting divertisement if one can but release the big fish unharmed.

IN

CHAPTER VI

DOWN THE ROGUE RIVER

southwestern Oregon, in the lower part of Des Chutes Valley, like a sapphire in a setting of emerald, lies one of the real wonders of the world-a vast and perfect crater filled with pure, limpid water. In the immediate vicinity are the Calapooia Mountains, of which Crater Lake occupies a peak, and here are some beautiful cañons filled with verdure. Much of the country from here to Shasta and beyond is volcanic, and in places the earth is covered with lava balls which were sent whirling into the air ages ago, to fall back and bombard the shrinking earth. But everywhere Nature is trying to cover this. Splendid forests have arisen, streams have cut down, forming cañons, and a wealth of fern and fragrant verdure has burst forth, concealing the evidence of a thousand tragedies, draping the hard lava with tapestries of moss, and converting the rifts in the face of the earth into glens of radiant beauty.

One of these gulches has been made by a little river that rises near the slopes of the crater and doubtless derives some of its water from it. It

goes foaming capriciously on, gaining strength; now through rocky barriers with tremendous abutments on every side; now sinking into profound depths, again flowing out into peaceful pastures and amid fields of flowers, ever on to the distant sea. It is a fair little river to look upon, yet has so many moods and fancies that long ago they called it the Rogue, and almost everywhere in its course the eternal fitness of the name is apparent, as even in places where it is the least riotous, I have been nearly snatched from my feet by its mad waters, and have seen them sweep big salmon into eddies near shore where they became helpless and were easily caught.

The river is ever changing as it sweeps on. For many miles it skirts the Rogue River Mountains and passes between them and the Siskiyou range, finding the ocean below Cape Blanco. In all its length the Rogue River is, as you may have suspected, a trout stream, and everywhere, from the level of the sea to nearly a mile above it, whether thirty feet or two hundred wide, whether rippling over shallows or bounding through some deep and rocky pass, or leaping into some abyss, affords good sport, or some charming diversion.

I first heard of the Rogue when drifting on the beautiful waters of Crystal River, which forms a part of the upper Klamath Lake. My

oarsman pointed out the snowy cap of Mount Pitt, which seemed to hang in the air like the roc's egg of fable, and on my expressing my admiration he would say, "Yes, but you should see the cañon of the Rogue beyond." Again, when following up the Dead Indian Trail, the anglers on the coach in the deep forest talked of the Rogue and its beauties. And so one year when I came out of the black forest that forms the advance guard of the Calipooia range, and dropped down from the trout streams a mile above the sea I kept on until I came to the Rogue. Long before I reached my destination, near Grant's Pass, we found the little river, flowing along by Oregon farms, through fields of grain that rippled in the sun; and everywhere it was so suggestive of peace and the delights of the angler, as depicted in the philosophy of Walton, that it was almost irresistible to stop and follow its eccentric bidding. It was sometime between September and October that I found myself on the stream. The nights had been freezing cold, a mile above the sea in the uplands, so we deserted the rainbows for the oceanic cousins-the salmon trout that were now coming up from the Pacific in bands, singly, and in twos and threes, with big salmon of a late run for companionship. Early one morning I started with a good boatman and companion, casting the Rogue.