70 MEN I HAVE FISHED WITH. 



of an advanced civilization before the conquest of that 

 country. The great temples have not a stone left. There 

 is not a trace of an aboriginal, intelligent people, while at 

 Glens Falls the cave of Uncas is there, in part. The great 

 cliff, where the Mingo was shot by Uncas, is being torn 

 down, and a few years ago I was there with a Fish Com- 

 missioner who had no poetry in his soul, and who actually 

 suggested cutting away a portion of the celebrated cave of 

 Uncas to make a fishway ! 



I have strayed from my text, but let us hope that the 

 people of Glens Falls or of the State of New York will 

 preserve this cave, as all other historic places are pre- 

 served ; for if the cave is not a part of real history, it should 

 be made so by law. 



It was evening when Mr. Simpkins met us at the hotel 

 in Warrensburgh with his team. He was a stalwart 

 farmer, whose appearance, from team to person, denoted 

 thrift, and his cordial reception soon made us friends. A 

 drive of three or four miles northward brought us to his 

 farm, a welcome from Mrs. Simpkins and supper. The 

 house was at the foot of a mountain, up which ran a road, 

 and most of the farm was in a deep bend of the Schroon 

 River, where the soil was very rich and from which a crop 

 of grain had been taken. It was too late in the day to fish 

 or shoot, but my fishing tackle was laid out and inspected 

 and we talked of field sports until bedtime, when a tired 

 boy turned and caught enormous fish which unhooked 

 themselves and either walked back into the water on the.tr 

 tails or vanished into air. A squirrel which I had killed 

 turned into a live bear and was charging me when Mrs. 

 Simpkins called me to breakfast, and the real world came 

 suddenly back. If the shade of Shakespeare could have 



