182 I GO A- FISHING. 



I stood on the balcony of my window and waited for 

 the coming of the day. For I had agreed, the evening 

 previous, with my artist friend the Baron, to go in the 

 early morning over the lower slope of Cannon Mountain 

 into the forest and pass two days there, he to make studies 

 of ancient birch-trees and masses of moss and groups of 

 fallen monarchs of the forest which lay there around, and 

 I to kill time as I best might on a certain wild lake 

 known only to a few of us. 



Long before the sun was visible over the cliffs we were 

 off and climbing the steep mountain-side. The first ray 

 of sunshine fell on us half-way up the hill, and lit the 

 ragged sides of an ancient birch, so that it fairly gleamed 

 with brown and gold, while in the middle of a bright spot 

 of bark was a medallion head of Queen Elizabeth, the 

 work of a worm who little knew what he was about in 

 sculpture. 



From the road to the lake side was an hour and a half, 

 chiefly up the side of the mountain. The lake was like a 

 picture calm, placid, waiting for us. Too calm for trout, 

 but nevertheless very enticing. 



Dupont and myself, who have for many years fished 

 these waters together, had sent up our India-rubber rafts 

 (before mentioned in this volume), and had used them 

 two or three times previously on the lake, leaving them 

 on the shore, where, in this wild mountain region, they 

 were as safe as if locked up at the Profile House. 



Hiram and Frank (our men) set themselves at once to 

 work on a bark camp for the night, and after determining 

 on its location and suggesting some ideas in the archi- 

 tecture, I "blew up" my raft and went a-fishing. 



A year previous, on the same day of the month, the Bar- 

 on and myself, with a friend, had discovered trout in this 



