162 I GO A- FISHING. 



Without doubt there is quite as much skill and experi- 

 ence necessary to the fisherman with bait as to the fish- 

 erman with the fly. How many will call this heresy ! 

 But let the angler who is so fond of his fly that he re- 

 gards bait-fishing as always vulgar, try with me the dash- 

 ing Pemigewasset, and I prophesy that in five miles of 

 that glorious torrent he will not raise five trout to a fly, 

 and I will have taken, following behind him, three hun- 

 dred. Small fish, of course, for the most part, but an oc- 

 casional half-pounder, and once in a while a larger trout. 

 In that river they will not rise to a fly at any season. I 

 have tried it more than a hundred times. And for that 

 reason shall I forego the splendid scenery, the magnifi- 

 cent ravines, the wild rush of the white torrent down its 

 thousand feet of descent, the beautiful pools among old 

 rocks, the long stretches of still, clear water — all the 

 glories of the most glorious river in America? I think 

 not. That is a stream down which it is worth an an- 

 gler's while to go, with a short rod and short line, and a 

 worm-bait, or the tail of a trout to tempt his fellows. 



I took off my leader and flies, wound it around my hat, 

 and replaced it with a hook and a single shot by way of 

 sinker. A fly-rod is not the best for bait-fishing; but I 

 had taken a somewhat stiffer rod than usual, anticipating 

 the occasion. With three feet of line or even less I 

 reached into deep holes under heavy bushes and fallen 

 ■trees that jammed the ravine, and took out a fine lot of 

 trout, working my way down with great difficulty, until I 

 found myself standing on the last pile of drift-wood, from 

 under which the stream flowed into the head of tide-wa- 

 ter — a lagoon in the salt marsh — in which I hoped to 

 find large salt-water trout. 



Replacing my flies, I cast diligently up and down the 



