250 REPORT OF THE FOREST, FISH AND GAME COMMISSION. 



angler's own delight in the coming long winter evenings, when a sniff at the "tar 

 oil " bottle, and a pipe of the fragrant weed, and the photographs, revived 

 precious memories of happy days. 



And then, too, the particularly good "catch" was photographed, furnishing 

 indisputable evidence of the truth of the fish stories we told to our wonder- 

 ing friends — and skeptical stay-at-homes — the only disadvantage being that one 

 had to be reasonably truthful, contrary to all precedent in the matter of fish 

 stories. Camp scenes, also, were admirable subjects. The walls of the "den," 

 snug and warm, where this article is being written while a blizzard is raging 

 outside, this cold winter's night, are adorned with scenes of camp, lake, river, 

 mountain, falls. The pictured outlines of a 3^-pound trout, taken with the fly 

 at the "Glory Hole" on the upper Oswegatchie, almost seem to start into life in 

 such company, and the broad tail — no, it doesn't move! It is the imagination 

 and memory of his captor that revel in the scenes, but the trout is not dashing 

 along the wall into that other picture, the beautiful river with its overhanging 

 banks and cool retreats. 



The big, heavy camera and glass plates have been stowed away. The kodak, 

 with its films, fits the large loose pocket and does not expose the old sportsman 

 to the quiet scorn of — the other sort of folks. When this lover of pictures gets 

 home, he looks over his prints (he lets the photographer make them), selects 

 those he loves best and has enlargements made of them. Look around these 

 walls, and see if, after all, it doesn't pay to fish, even with a camera! 



After all, what is the secret of this fascination of fishing in the Adirondacks 

 which we old sportsmen feel; which makes us count the days when in February 

 they begin to lengthen, and later we watch the reports about the ice going out? 

 Is it the heat and discomfort of the hot July days that drive us out of our homes 

 into the cool forest? Or, is there not something there that draws us thither? Is 

 it the fishing alone; the fierce leap of the trout when the fly alights on the 

 water; the thrill of the strike; the joy of the fight and victory; visions of full baskets, 

 and the memory of rich, unique feasts? 



These do, indeed, let us confess, draw us, and move us; but there is something 

 still stronger — a haunting memory of a subtle something one never can quite 

 define even to his own consciousness. The solemn forest, all the mysteries of 

 sound, the low murmur of the pine leaves, the sweet odors of soil and vegetation, 

 the silences, the glittering waters, the dark-hued pools, the hermit thrush's note 

 at evening — a hundred other things we can name and label; but beyond all 

 these there is something like the secret of what is life itself, which no mortal 

 has ever solved. The humblest blade of grass, the tiniest insect, hides this 



