SPECKLED TROUT 117 



How shall I describe that wild, beautiful stream, 

 with features so like those of all other mountain 

 streams? And yet, as I saw it in the deep twilight 

 of those woods on that June afternoon, with its 

 steady, even flow, and its tranquil, many-voiced 

 murmur, it made an impression upon my mind dis- 

 tinct and peculiar, fraught in an eminent degree 

 with the charm of seclusion and remoteness. The 

 solitude was perfect, and I felt that strangeness and 

 insignificance which the civilized man must always 

 feel when opposing himself to such a vast scene of 

 silence and wildness. The trout were quite black, 

 like all wood trout, and took the bait eagerly. I 

 followed the stream till the deepening shadows 

 warned me to turn back. As I neared camp, the 

 fire shone far through the trees, dispelling the gath- 

 ering gloom, but blinding my eyes to all obstacles 

 at my feet. I was seriously disturbed on arriving 

 to find that one of my companions had cut an ugly 

 gash in his shin with the axe while felling a tree. 

 As we did not carry a fifth wheel, it was not just 

 the time or place to have any of our members crip- 

 pled, and I had bodings of evil. But, thanks to the 

 healing virtues of the balsam which must have ad- 

 hered to the blade of the axe, and double thanks to 

 the court-plaster with which Orville had supplied 

 himself before leaving home, the wounded leg, by 

 being favored that night and the next day, gave us 

 little trouble. 



That night we had our first fair and square camp- 

 ing out, that is, sleeping on the ground with no 



