Xrouting; in Canadensis Valley 67 



tapered if you like. The flies here's the main thing 

 should be the best, and of the smallest brook trout 

 pattern. Next year, when I make up my supply, I'll 

 pack fully two hundred, and they'll be the dearest- 

 priced flies, for they are none too good. 



Oh, I must say a word about cooking and eating 

 trout before I close. I've tried them in all styles, and 

 the best way, I think, is when they're roasted over a 

 camp 'fire on a little crotch stick, one prong in the head 

 and the other in the tail. And the worst way, I think, 

 is when they're fried in a pan with bad butter or poor 

 lard. 



Blake and I are in our glory. Our only displeasure 

 is in knowing that our perspiring city friends are not as 

 comfortable. The days here are warm and bright 

 not hot and close and the nights cool and clear, so 

 that we live merrily all the time. 



I went a few hundred yards down the stream in 

 front of the camp to two great bowlders, one morning, 

 and there, during a little sun shower, took a Salvelinus 

 fontinalis that weighed just a little over two pounds 

 and a quarter. He rose to a pinkish, cream-colored 

 fly, with little brown spots on the wings. I forget its 

 name, but it's one of the six really good ones I referred 

 to. I decided to keep the large captive alive, so I took 

 off one of the cords tied about my trousers at the bot- 

 toms (I never wear wading boots in warm weather), 

 put it through his gill, and tied the other end to a 

 submerged tree-root. Later, Mr. Trout was lodged in 

 a small box, with bars tacked over the top, and placed 

 under a spout running from an old mill race. He was a 

 big specimen large enough to saddle and ride to town, 

 the cook said. And pretty as pretty as a gathering of 

 lilacs and giant ferns decked with wintergreen berries. 



