178 THE BROOK BOOK 



as I write hangs a trophy that I prize. It is a 

 life-sized wooden effigy of my first brook trout, 

 neatly whittled out, and suitably engrossed with 

 faithful statistics. It was Barry, leader of the visit- 

 ing party, arch fisherman and good fellow, who 

 called the humble lid of a cracker box to serve 

 the higher uses of art. It was he likewise who 

 retired the two fish hooks from active service, and 

 devoted them to a purpose significant, if not very 

 aesthetic. 



When the thing was finished to his liking, he 

 presented it to me with a profound bow, and said: 

 "Accept wid me complimints this counterfit pre- 

 sintm'nt. It's a clumsy affair, but it tells the facts. 

 That was the biggest an' the naytest catch of the 

 year, so far as I know. I'll warrant ye'll not be 

 fergettin' that night, an' when ye do, this will 

 help ye to remimber the day." 



