SPECKLED TROUT. 139 



struggling to reach the shore. Rushing to its rescue 

 in the canoe, I found a yellow-rumped warbler, quite 

 exhausted, clinging to a twig that hung down into 

 the water ; I brought the drenched and helpless 

 thing to camp, and, putting it into a basket, hung it 

 up to dry. An hour or two afterward I heard it flut- 

 tering in its prison, and cautiously lifting the lid to 

 get a better glimpse of the lucky captive, it darted 

 out and was gone in a twinkling. How came it in 

 the water ? That was my wonder, and I can only 

 guess that it was a young bird that had never before 

 flown over a pond of water, and, seeing the clouds 

 and blue sky so perfect down there, thought it was a 

 vast opening or gateway into another summer land, 

 perhaps a short cut to the tropics, and so got itself 

 into trouble. How my eye was delighted also with 

 the red-bird that alighted for a moment on a dry 

 branch above the lake, just where a ray of light 

 from the setting sun fell full upon it. A mere crim- 

 son point, and yet how it offset that dark, sombre 

 background ! 



I have thus run over some of the features of an 

 ordinary trouting excursion to the woods. People, 

 inexperienced in such matters, sitting in their rooms 

 and thinking of these things, of all the poets have 

 sung and romancers written, are apt to get sadly 

 taken in when they attempt to realize their dreams. 

 They expect to enter a sylvan paradise of trout, cool 

 retreats, laughing brooks, picturesque views, balsamic 



