162 I GO A- FISHING. 



Without doubt there is quite as much skill and experi- 

 ence necessary to the fisherman with bait as to the fish- 

 erman with the fly. How many will call this heresy ! 

 But let the angler who is so fond of his fly that he re- 

 gards bait-fishing as always vulgar, try with me the dash- 

 ing Pemigewasset, and I prophesy that in five miles of 

 that glorious torrent he will not raise five trout to a fly, 

 and I will have taken, following behind him, three hun- 

 dred. Small fish, of course, for the most part, but an oc- 

 casional half-pounder, and once in a while a larger trout. 

 In that river they will not rise to a fly at any season. I 

 have tried it more than a hundred times. And for that 

 reason shall I forego the splendid scenery, the magnifi- 

 cent ravines, the wild rush of the white torrent down its 

 thousand feet of descent, the beautiful pools among old 

 rocks, the long stretches of still, clear water all the 

 glories of the most glorious river in America ? I think 

 not. That is a stream down which it is worth an an- 

 gler's while to go, with a short rod and short line, and a 

 worm-bait, or the tail of a trout to tempt his fellows. 



I took off my leader and flies, wound it around my hat, 

 and replaced it with a hook and a single shot by way of 

 sinker. A fly-rod is not the best for bait-fishing; but I 

 had taken a somewhat stiffer rod than usual, anticipating 

 the occasion. With three feet of line or even less I 

 reached into deep holes under heavy bushes and fallen 

 trees that jammed the ravine, and took out a fine lot of 

 trout, working my way down with great difficulty, until I 

 found myself standing on the last pile of drift-wood, from 

 under which the stream flowed into the head of tide-wa- 

 ter a lagoon in the salt marsh in which I hoped to 

 find large salt-water trout. 



Replacing my flies, I cast diligently up and down the 



