THE BROOK TROUT. 22 5 



stored with the oddest literary jumble I had ever known. 

 He was continually breaking out in quotations, mostly from 

 the poets; so that he was commonly known as "Old Poetry." 



Old Poetry and I started out one fine morning for the 

 woods. He had told me of a stream flowing from a spring 

 high up on the mountain side, which he had crossed in 

 winter, when in pursuit of a moose, and pointed out far to 

 the northward, the gleam of the cataract, almost hidden in a 

 dense spruce forest. 



"I always thought," said he, "that I'd go there again, and 

 catch some fur. There's some little ponds there, and Trout 

 till you can'trest, and where you find Trout a-plenty, there's 

 always mink, sure. But it's a mighty hard road, and I never 

 got to trap there yet." 



This spot was our objective point, and heavily laden as 

 we were, with provisions, et cetera, we made but slow prog- 

 ress. Indeed, had I known beforehand of the nature of the 

 country we must traverse, I should hardly have undertaken 

 the trip. 



Pausing at a brook, Poetry detached from his belt a silver 

 cup, and gave me to drink. The elegant form and chasing of 

 the vessel attracted my attention, and he told me that it was a 

 parting gift from a New York gentleman with whom he had 

 often hunted in the past. "And ah," said he looking fondly 

 at the battered treasure, 



"My eyes grow moist and dim, to think of all the vanished joys that danced 

 around its brim." 



'Twere long to tell of the weary two days tramp which 

 brought us at length to the verge of a rocky cliff, where we 

 threw off our packs and looked down into a clear pool of 

 water, many feet below, and some fifty yards in length, 

 which filled the rocky chasm, and fairly swarmed with Trout. 



Verily, it was well worth the weary journey we had made, 

 but to see the schools of fish. The afternoon sun lighted 



15 



