JOHN ATWOOD. 



FIRST NIGHT IN CAMP. 



LOOKED at from later years John was not a bad 

 boy, neither was he a good boy, but just one of 

 those ne'er-do-wells that could not be kept in 

 school nor out of the woods. He was long of leg and 

 could tell where most of the birds' nests were within a 

 circle of two miles, with the schoolhouse as a centre. His 

 acquirements at school dwarfed beside his knowledge of 

 the best "fishin' holes," and some parents I knew did not 

 look upon John as a desirable companion for a younger 

 boy. He was some three years my senior, and his knowl- 

 edge of the country roads, and of the birds, beasts and 

 fishes made him easily a leader of boys who had a taste 

 for such things. 



It was long after Reuben Wood had shown me how 

 to fish that I sat on the railroad dock fishing with a pole 

 and float, for the Albany & Boston Railroad had invaded 

 the village, coming down between the present site of the 

 ' Episcopal Church and the district school to where the 

 lower bridge to Albany now spans the Hudson, and it 

 made a good fishing place for boys. John Atwood came 

 there that Saturday morning and sneered at my tackle. 



"Yes," said he, "that's the way Reub Wood fishes, but 

 there ain't no fun in it, for you h'ist 'em out too quick 

 with a pole; throw that away and take off yer float, rig 

 yer sinker below the hooks, and when you get a fish haul 

 him in hand under hand and feel him wiggle all the way 

 in that's sport!" John's advice was followed and ap- 

 proved, the heavy sinker, with two or three hooks pendant 



