OSGOOD RAPIDS. 143 



some miles of wading and struggling through swamps and 

 underbrush. 



The sun had gone westward, and the shadows of the 

 pines were thrown across the stream. Wild pigeons were 

 abundant in the trees. Now and then a flight of duck 

 went over us. The wind was gentle, but it roared in the 

 pine-trees as if a heavy surf were breaking just beyond 

 the hill. We took our places again on the rapid, Dupont 

 on one rock in mid-stream, with Frank by his side, myself 

 on another rock with John. It would seem that the num- 

 ber of fish had been increased, instead of diminished, by 

 our morning's work. They rose at every cast, and we 

 landed them at our ease. We threw back countless small 

 fish which we did not care to take out, and finished the 

 day's sport with a hundred and fifteen trout to take home 

 for the supply of the hotel. It is a comfort to take fish 

 where they are sure to be useful for food, and it is a sub- 

 ject of profound regret that many persons go into the 

 woods and camp, and, having only a few mouths to sup- 

 ply, kill large numbers of trout which are not eaten, but 

 thrown away. No sportsman does this. It is only the 

 inexperienced and thoughtless who find pleasure in kill- 

 ing fish for the mere sake of killing them. I have often 

 amused myself, after taking all the fish that I needed for 

 food, by breaking off the point of a fly-hook and casting 

 the harmless deception to call up the trout, and watch 

 their swift rush and splendid plunges. But there is no 

 sport in killing fish unless some one will eat them. 



We gathered our traps together — the rods, the wading- 

 trousers and shoes, the landing-nets and the fish — and 

 started homeward. Up the river, rowing easily till we 

 lifted over the old bridge, then up the narrow, winding 

 stream, with the guide kneeling in the bow of the boat, 



