THE BROOK TROUT. 229 



By the time we had roofed the camp and had the fire well 

 under way, the angler returned. "Look here," said he. "I 

 thought you said those were Trout out there rising in the 

 lake." 



"So I did," said I. 



"Well, they are nothing but Bull-pouts." 



I am afraid that I did not succeed in repressing the smile 

 which rose to my lips as I replied: "Bull-pouts don't rise 

 in that way. How many did you catch.'" 



"Seven." 



"Did you keep them.'" 



"No. I thought we were going to have Trout for supper. 

 Think you, we left the classic hills of Harvard to initiate our 

 first camp amid these granite solitudes by a banquet on Bull- 

 pouts.' Perish the thought!" 



"Perhaps it would have been safer to keep theBull-pouts, as 

 we are all rather hungry, but we will see what can be done." 



Preparing my tackle I walked along the shore near the foot 

 of the granite cliff where the water was deep, and a tree had 

 fallen into the lake. Standing alongside a large bowlder I cast 

 my hackles toward the tree-top, and the first cast fastened 

 an eight-inch Trout. I continued my fishing for half an hour, 

 by which time enough had been secured for present needs, 

 and we returned to the camp-fire. 



During our meal, Rob, who had watched my fishing with 

 interest, inquired the reason why he had only caught Bull- 

 pouts, instead of Trout as he had expected; to which I replied 

 that he had selected for his fishing a little muddy cove which 

 was the natural home of theBull-pout, and added that fishing 

 as he did with bait, he would do better to seek for Trout 

 among the ledges. My advice was followed, and before 

 night closed in, we had taken several more Trout — the two 

 young fellows with bait, and I with white miller. We walled 

 in with loose stones a little pool in which to keep our fish 

 alive, and at last, thoroughly wearied with the toils of the 



