ANGLING. 85 



and a few miles in a rough wagon, or a vigorous tramp over 

 rugged hills or along the road that leads up the banks of the 

 river, he arrives at his quarters 1 He is now in the region 

 of fresh butter and mealy potatoes — there are always good 

 potatoes in a mountainous trout country. How pleasingly 

 rough everything looks after leaving the prim city ! How 

 pure and wholesome the air ! How beautiful the clumps of 

 sugar-maples and the veteran hemlocks jutting out over the 

 stream ; the laurel ; the ivy ; the moss-covered rocks ; the 

 lengthening shadows of evening! How musical the old 

 familiar tinkling of the cow-bell and the cry of the whip-poor- 

 will ! How sweetly he is lulled to sleep as he hears 



" The waters leap and gush 

 O'er channelled rock, and broken bush I" 



Next morning, after a hearty breakfast of mashed potatoes, 

 ham and eggs, and butter from the cream of the cow that 

 browses in the woods, he is off, three miles up the creek, a 

 cigar or his pipe in his mouth, his creel at his side, and his 

 rod over his shoulder, chatting with his chum as he goes ; 

 free, joyous, happy ; at peace with his Maker, with himself, 

 and all mankind ; he should be grateful for this much, even 

 if he catches no fish. How exhilarating the music of the 

 stream ! how invigorating its waters, causing a consciousness 

 of manly vigor, as he wades sturdily with the strong current 

 and casts his flies before him ! When his zeal abates, and a 

 few of the speckled lie in the bottom of his creel, he is not 

 less interested in the wild flowers on the bank, or the scathed 

 old hemlock on the cliff above, with its hawk's nest, the lady 

 of the house likely inside, and the male proprietor perched 

 high above on its dead top, and he breaks forth lustily — the 

 scene suggesting the song — 



' The bee's on its wing, and the hawk on its nest, 

 And the river runs merrily by." 



