SPECKLED TROUT 



but before they were half dressed, or the first pan- 

 fuls fried, the rain set in. First came short, sharp 

 dashes, then a gleam of treacherous sunshine, fol- 

 lowed by more and heavier dashes. The wind was 

 in the southwest, and to rain seemed the easiest 

 thing in the world. From fitful dashes to a steady 

 pour the transition was natural. We stood huddled 

 together, stark and grim, under our cover, like hens 

 under a cart. The fire fought bravely for a time, 

 and retaliated with sparks and spiteful tongues of 

 flame; but gradually its spirit was broken, only a 

 heavy body of coal and half-consumed logs in the 

 centre holding out against all odds. The simmer- 

 ing fish were soon floating about in a yellow liquid 

 that did not look in the least appetizing. Point after 

 point gave way in our cover, till standing between 

 the drops was no longer possible. The water coursed 

 down the underside of the boards, and dripped in 

 our necks and formed puddles on our hat-brims. 

 We shifted our guns and traps and viands, till there 

 was no longer any choice of position, when the loaves 

 and the fishes, the salt and the sugar, the pork and 

 the butter, shared the same watery fate. The fire 

 was gasping its last. Little rivulets coursed about 

 it, and bore away the quenched but steaming coals 

 on their bosoms. The spring run in the rear of our 

 camp swelled so rapidly that part of the trout that 

 had been hastily left lying on its banks again found 

 themselves quite at home. For over two hours the 

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