164 I GO A -FISHING. 



last window of the last car of that train, and who sprang 

 out to the platform so swiftly, and waved his hand to me 

 with such an emphatic gesture of delight, has any curi- 

 osity about that fish, and if he ever read this book, then 

 these presents are to inform him that that fish was no 

 trout at all. It was a bull-pout, a cat-fish, or whatever 

 you choose to call the ugly, devilish-looking rascals that 

 lie in mud holes and come out to annoy respectable fish- 

 ermen. I killed that fish. I deliberately hammered 

 him on a stone till his head was dead. His tail, I sup- 

 pose, is yet alive. But he will not bite again. 



I returned to the rock where I had left my book and 

 my trout. The book was there. So was Caesar, the 

 large dog from the farm-house. So was not the trout. 

 I had my suspicions. The dog saw that I had, and, 

 dropping his head and tail, slunk into the cover, and did 

 not meet me at the door when I returned to the farm- 

 house. The book was dry, and I walked homeward with 

 over two dozen trout, every one of them fit for a royal 

 table. And they graced a royal table that evening, load- 

 ed with the luxuries of country life. And when the even- 

 ing waxed late, and the hour of separating came, I went 

 to my room to sleep. The wind swept occasionally with 

 a wail through the tree overhead, and rattled a loose 

 shingle on the roof, but I slept none the less soundly 

 and quietly. 



After that I used often to fish that stream, sometimes 

 alone, sometimes with friends. 



One morning, when I was fishing the stream upward 

 above the swamp, I found what is a noteworthy charac- 

 teristic of many of the farms in this part of Connecticut. 

 It seems to have been the ancient custom for the farmer 

 to have a family burying-place on his farm. And I sup- 



