TROUT OF THE KENNEBEC 



bends, its peeps of purple mountain, its picturesque 

 shores, its murmur and hiss and roar, its mysterious 

 and deep-toned chug ! chug ! as it passes toward 

 the sea, now with wide level sheets of water, and 

 now in swift rapids, broken by falls and whirlpools 

 into which strong men have fallen and slept their 

 last sleep — that river, with its beautiful pools that 

 quicken one's step and fill his heart with hope as 

 he draws near, — who having once seen it at its 

 source can ever forget the Kennebec ? 



I came, years ago, to that river as a tyro, never 

 having made a cast, never having seen a fly, but soon 

 received some kindly instruction from the men 

 who were there, for all masters of the gentle art 

 will meet even a neophyte upon the level, act 

 toward him by the plumb, and part with him upon 

 the square. One of them, a distinguished clergy- 

 man, was fishing a certain pool, day after day, but 

 without success, the Red God being sometimes 

 capricious in his bestowal of favors. In my igno- 

 rance of the laws of the game, I conceived that pool 

 to be the minister's especial preserve, and religiously 

 kept away from it. Upon his departure I eagerly 

 started for the pool, and, wading in, took my place 

 at its head, — a swift strong current on the one side 

 and shallows on the other. Making an awkward 

 cast, to my surprise and delight, a great head 



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