I. 



UP THE HUDSON IN THE WOODS TROUT FISHING A 



QUEER FISH. 



Backwoods, June 23. 



Dear H : 



The steam is up — the pipes are spitting forth in 

 furious disgust volumes of vapor — the last bell is ring- 

 ing, and amid the clatter of carriages, the shouts of 

 men and clouds of steam, we are off to the centre of 

 the Hudson, and, stretching away, like a gallant steed, 

 rapidly divide the water northward. 



As I stand on the deck and think of the broad, deep 

 forest and its rushing streams, a feeling of freedom 

 steals over me, I have been a stranger to, for months. 

 The chains of conventional life begin to fall off, link 

 after link, and I fancy I feel my blood take a new 

 spring already. This chasing after health, though, is 

 a discouraging business. To spend half of one's life 



