7 



they are in abundance. I pass the lake itself and 

 follow the little stream for about half a mile until I 

 come to White's Farm. This I have found to be the 

 finest fishing ground. The stream is about eight- 

 een feet wide at the narrowest part and from fifty 

 to sixty at its widest. It rises miles upon miles 

 back in the country somewhere, and runs rippling 

 and chattering over the shallows, surging silently 

 over the pools until it empties into the lake. I 

 have never fished higher than White's Farm, being 

 well satisfied with the sport obtained there, but the 

 resident farmers tell me that there is even finer 

 fishing up stream. 



Like the average fisherman, I am more or less 

 superstitious, and having always had good luck at 

 my favorite place (the edge of a fine piece of 

 wood, which, by the way, contain a few wood- 

 cock), I do not care to seek further, and, perhaps, 

 fare worse. 



Here, where the stream branches off from a wide 

 pond-like section, and slowly flows past two dozen 

 or so fine willows on either bank, I have made 

 a rude seat in one of the trees, and using a coat 

 for a cushion, have spent many pleasant hours; 

 not always fishing, but on hot summer afternoons, 

 shaded from the sun, just letting my line run out 

 in the water, careless about either rise or catch, in 

 quiet repose, looking at the beautiful natural land- 

 scape around me, fairly enchanted with its rural 

 splendor. Then I feel that for a short space, at 

 least, I have thrown off the burden of a busy life, and 



