THE BROOK TROUT. 2J5 



of a sixteen-story flat, and a deep satisfaction in making 

 the longest cast at an angling tournament, there is yet no 

 feeling which can take the place of that in the mind of the 

 tired and muddy angler, who as he wends his way homeward in 

 the gloaming, is reminded by the weight of his creel, of the 

 various incidents of weather, stream, rock, tree, flower, bird, 

 animal, insect and fish which together have combined to 

 make up his successful day's fishing. 



The Brook Trout! How the memories of early and later 

 days throng upon the mind of a "down-east" angler at the 

 name. I remember as it were yesterday, when, a little boy, 

 and listening wide-eyed to the converse of my elders, I heard 

 such stories of great strings of beautiful Trout brought home 

 from the brooks as set my blood on fire to emulate these 

 achievements. Would I never be big enough to go Trout-fish- 

 ing? 



There was upon my father's farm a meadow through which 

 ran a sparkling brook with pebbly bottom. As I one day 

 approached this little stream, I saw a fish dart under a log 

 which lay buried in the water. It must be a Trout, and here 

 at last was my opportunity. I had a small silken line and 

 several hooks, which had been given me by my big brother 

 in Boston; and rapidly as possible, I hastened home, cut a 

 stout apple-tree wand, and rigged my tackle. Placing upon 

 the hook a worm, I hurried to the haunt of the Trout. I had 

 heard enough of the modus operandi of the sport to keep out 

 of sight; and carefully — very carefully, I approached the 

 brook. My heart thumped loudly against my ribs as slowly 

 the bait settled upon the water — I couldn't do it better to- 

 day, though nearly fifty years have passed since; like a gleam of 

 light, the Trout darted across the pool, and straight there was 

 a thrilling tug upon the line. The lithe sprout bent double 

 to the weight of the fish, for it was a good half-pounder; 

 and when at last he lay quivering among the clover-blossoms, 

 there was in all the northern land no prouder boy than I. 



