190 FLY-FISHING IN MAINE LAKES. 



"Well," said he, "I was raised in Scarborough, 

 Me." He had been, like the "Boots" at Holly 

 Tree Inn, "a'most everywhere," had fought with 

 the boys in blue, and later against the Indians on the 

 plains ; had raised wheat in Minnesota, and felled 

 trees in Michigan. 



As I was well acquainted in Scarborough, a little 

 town near Portland, Me., numbering some thousand 

 souls, three-quarters of whom bear the name of 

 Libby, to test his truthfulness I asked him if he was 

 acquainted with any person of that name in the 

 town. His answer was more expressive than ele- 

 gant : 



" Libby ! G d ! Every man in town's name's 

 Libby, but one, and his name's Libby Johnson." 



While partaking of his hearty meal, our joyous 

 youth became communicative, and informed us that 

 the kind old gent who had so raised our expecta- 

 tions had passed the last few years in State's Pris- 

 on. At hearing which, Tom didn't look at the 

 flags for seventeen minutes. During the hour and 

 a half passed in eating and d rying our feet, one 

 more poor pickerel was insnared, evidently the* last 

 of his race, for not another came to taste our 

 tempting bait ; and soon the lengthening shadows 

 warned us that it was time to discontinue oui 

 sport (?). 



