294 FISHING WITH THE FLY. 



was a wee toddler in skirts I used to hold hooks and 

 snells and play at "helping papa." 



All this was done here at the head of the Delaware, 

 where both my father and myself were born. But a 

 change came. When I was about six years old my fa- 

 ther bought a large tract of wild land in the wildest 

 part of Wayne County, Pennsylvania, and settled on it. 

 The Lackawaxen Creek ran right through it, and that 

 then lovely stream was literally alive with speckled 

 trout. From the day we entered our log house there I 

 was &fi slier -hoy. I caught trout every day in the sum- 

 mer, for a big spring rose within a rod of the house 

 and from it ran a lively brook to the main stream, ten 

 rods away, and even a pin-hook and linen thread would 

 draw them out. 



As I grew older I would go with my father to the 

 big eddies and deep holes, where he would lure the 

 largest to his fly and I was only too — too utterly happy 

 when allowed to wade waist deep in the water to carry 

 or float his string of trout toward home. 



Since then never a summer has passed, except when 

 actively engaged in naval or military service for my 

 country, that has not found me fishing somewhere. I 

 have covered the best waters in Maine, New Hampshire 

 and Yermont ; Canada and the British Provinces know 

 me of old ; California, Oregon and British Columbia — 

 all along the Big Eockies — have seen me testing flies 

 and bait, the former often tied rudely on the spur of 

 necessity, but generally very effectively. For where 



