40 Musings by Camp-Fire and Wayside 



I had a pair of dry moccasins, each with a shaker 

 sock in it, fastened to my belt, my camera and plate- 

 holder strapped to my shoulders, and the tripod in 

 hand, and right into the clear swift stream I went, 

 in ordinary shoes and stockings. Might as well — I 

 never went trouting in boots that I did not get them 

 full of water the first two minutes — and the higher 

 they came the worse they were, because they would 

 hold more. The clear stream came up to my knees. 

 Why not go along the margin? I hardly believe a 

 rabbit could have done it. Get into a tangle of 

 those alders and swamp-willows, and one is about as 

 helpless as a fly in a spider's web. Then it is such 

 beautiful walking on the pebbly bottom! One does 

 not have to step — just lift a foot and the swift cur- 

 rent carries it forward; but undertake to wade 

 up! — two feet of unbroken snow would be easy com- 

 pared with it. The darting trout were as clearly 

 visible as if they were swimming in the air. An 

 enormous pickerel did me the honor not to be afraid 

 of me, but swam around, the embodiment of lithe- 

 ness. Wherever he went there was a scatterment. 

 He is the shark of fresh waters. On and on I went, 

 taking an occasional photograph, and at last noti- 

 cing a sunny hillside, left the stream, wrung out my 

 clothes, and put on dry socks and moccasins and 

 started on the return. 



There was a ravine ahead, and I foolishly sup- 

 posed it to be narrow — a not uncommon mistake in 

 those who are tempted into evil ways. The precept, 



