TROUTIXG ON LONG ISLAND. 76 



torial circle a man of ''infinite jest" and unbounded stomach, into whose mediter- 

 ranean mouth good things perpetually flowed, and out of which better came. There 

 is a classical dignity, a patronizing air about his fashion of whipping in a trout that 

 would make the earliest of gudgeons gracefully acknowledge the compliment of 

 being caught by him. The second in order was a thin, wiry fellow a sort of 

 piscatory assassin, a professional dealer in treasons, strategems and spoils, and a 

 doctrinal believer in the efficacy of immense boots for beguiling trout. There are 

 some fishermen who would consider boots that came to their hips indispensable, 

 even if they were going to fish in the dry bed of a stream. The third resembled 

 a certain celebrated member of an ancient party that included several fishermen, 

 inasmuch as he had an eye to the wants of others and bore the provender bag for 

 them. The fourth was the subscriber, of whom the less said the better. 



GOING TO THE FISHING GROUNDS. 



You should have seen this lively quartet as it gathered at the depot on the 

 afternoon preceding that Friday, 1st of March unlucky day, but suggestive of 

 fish nevertheless. There was no trace of undue excitement upon their faces. One 

 would scarcely have suspected that a weight of cares rested upon their shoulders 

 and that their next day's happiness depended upon the solution of muddy geomet- 

 rical problems and juxtaposition of lines, angles and punts. What i convenient 

 affair a railroad is ! New Yorkers would hardly think of going down Long 

 Island for trout, except for the railroad. Nay, as for time and distance, it might 

 be said that one can almost sit in his chamber at Brooklyn and fish in the ponds 

 at Islip, sixty miles away. So we have hardly taken our seat in the cars, selected 



our flies, wet our whistles and smoked before we are set down at , where 



Brock's team is in waiting, according to program. If you ever wish to go fishing, 

 arrange with this same Brock the day before, and he will hold himself in readiness 

 to take you over the barrens to the fishing grounds, as he did us. Only I hope it 

 won't rain as it did on that unlucky occasion, and I trust you may have a spring 

 wagon, so that betwixt the agueish chills of the atmosphere and the jolting over 

 the scrub oak roots in the roads, you won't rattle all the gold filling out of your 

 teeth at once. The torture was brief, however, for the horses made up in speed 

 what they lacked in comeliness, and away we clattered, until luggage, fishing-rods, 

 horse blankets, baskets, seats and passengers were well shaken into a heap over 

 the forward axle. 



In this mixed condition we were suddenly rounded to (as the sailors say) be- 

 fore the door of a goodly farmhouse, with a whirl that whisked the mud over the 

 outer wheels, and had the good fortune to reach its protecting porch just as the 

 soggy clouds had squeezed out their last drop of rain. As we unbundled, Uncle 

 Sam Ketcham waved his hand hospitably at the door, while his bashful daughter 

 Susan (we learned that her name was Susan afterwards) welcomed us with her 

 sunniest smile from behind the old man's shoulder, like a ray of sunrise gleaming 

 over a hill. A good old matron in silver-bowed spectacles and cap asked if we 

 were wet, and our fat friend answered dismally for the party that we were very 

 "dry." Then we hastily shook the kinks out of our legs, and after a "hands all 

 round" bestowed ourselves for the evening. 



A TROUT BREAKFAST. 



Early in the misty, musty morning following the war-cry was sounded, and 

 the party vaulted the nearest fence for a two hours' angling before breakfast. 

 Uncle Sam, with an attendant carrying oars, led the way to the pond. The signs 



