A BED OF BOUGHS 



ing the nests we had seen on the East Branch, 

 little scaffoldings of twigs scattered all through the 

 trees. 



It was nearly noon when we struck the West 

 Branch, and the sun was scalding hot. We knew 

 that two and three pound trout had been taken 

 there, and yet we wet not a line in its waters. The 

 scene was primitive, and carried one back to the 

 days of his grandfather, stumpy fields, log fences, 

 log houses and barns. A boy twelve or thirteen 

 years old came out of a house ahead of us eating a 

 piece of bread and butter. We soon overtook him 

 and held converse with him. He knew the land 

 well, and what there was in the woods and the 

 waters. He had walked out to the railroad station, 

 fourteen miles distant, to see the cars, and back the 

 same day. I asked him about the flies and mosqui- 

 toes, etc. He said they were all gone except the 

 " blunder-heads;" there were some of them left yet. 



" What are blunder-heads ? " I inquired, sniffing 

 new game. 



"The pesky little fly that gets into your eye 

 when you are a-fishing." 



Ah, yes! I knew him well. We had got ac- 

 quainted some days before, and I thanked the boy 

 for the name. It is an insect that hovers before 

 your eye as you thread the streams, and you are 

 forever vaguely brushing at it under the delusion 

 that it is a little spider suspended from your hat- 

 247 



