MEETING TROUT ON THE "JUNE RISE." 165 



remembered. Luckily it also took the lumbermen the 

 same way, and left few native anglers at home. When 

 the waters had subsided to a fair volume, and the streams 

 had still a suspicion of inilkiness, I started at 3 p. M. 

 of a lovely June afternoon for the Trout-House. An 

 easy two hours walk, an hour of delightful angling, 

 and I reached the little' hostelry with three dozen brook 

 trout, averaging about seven inches in length only, but 

 fresh and sweet, all caught on a single red hackle, 

 which will probably remain my favorite bug until I go 

 over the last carry (though I notice it has gone well 

 out of fashion with modern anglers). 



A siqrper of trout ; an evening such as must be seen 

 and felt to be appreciated ; trout again for breakfast, 

 with a dozen packed for lunch, and I struck in at the 

 bridge before sunrise for an all day bout, "to meet 'em 

 on the June rise." I didn't do it. I took the entire 

 day to whip that six miles of bright, dashing water. I 

 filled a twelve-pound creel with trout, putting back 

 everything under eight inches. I put back more than 

 I kept. I had one of the most enjoyable days of my 

 life ; I came out at the lower bridge after sundown — 

 and I had not seen or caught one fresh-run river trout. 

 They were all the slender, large-mouthed, dark-mottled 

 fish of the gloomy forest, with crimson spots like fresh 

 drops of blood. But I was not discouraged. Had the 

 trout been there I should have met them. I walked 

 half a mile to the little inn at Babb's, selected a dozen 

 of my best fish for supper and breakfast, gave away the 



