Terms, Five Dollars a Year. 1 

 Ten Cents a Copy. j 



NEW YORK, THURSDAY. NOVEMBER 11, 1875. 



[ Volume 5, Number 14. 



| 17 Chatham St. (CityHall gqr.) 



For Forest and Stream. 



grouting J$nwng the fftfife ^jiilh. 



■» — 



AWAKE that an idea prevails among the disciples of 

 Isaac Walton that trout fishing among the White 

 ji Hills of New Hampshire has beoome a thing of the past, 

 | and that one might expect to be more successful in a search 

 after the stereotyped needle hid in the hay stack than in 

 attempting to take trout from the waters that empty into 

 the Connecticut from that State, many of your readers 

 | may therefore be not a little surprised to learn that in the 

 clear, sparkling waters of the Granite State there are now 

 just as good fish as ever were there caught. So with your 

 consent, Mr. Editor, I propose giving you a few leaves 

 from my diary expressive of my experience during a visit 

 to that section . 



It was on the afternoon of a beautiful day in August 

 that your correspondent found himself at the Fabyan 

 House, situated at the terminus of the Boston, Connecti- 

 cut, and Montreal Eailroad, where, after partaking of a 

 hearty supper, I approached some of the attaches of the 

 house and sounded them as to the probability of finding 

 trout in the neighborhood. Just as I expected, nothing 

 could be gleaned from men whose only idea of the plea- 

 sures of life was derived from the acquisition of dollars 

 "and cents, and who never once had experienced the elec- 

 tric thrill such as is felt when a two pounder takes the 

 dropper. Retiring for the night, I was soon in dreamland, 

 and while having some good fishing there, was suddenly 

 disturbed by a rap at the door, accompanied by "six 

 o'clock, sir." Donning my fishing rig and shouldering my 

 Mitchell rod, I was soon plodding along the road in the 

 lirection of the upper falls of the Ammonusic, distant 

 ibout two miles. The morning was a fine one— the clear, 

 fresh, crisp air seemed to quicken every muscle with a new 

 rigor, and after a brisk walk of half an hour I reached my 

 destination. Seating myself on a large boulder by the side 

 of the stream, I took a look at the situation. The view 

 tm a grand one, and would have gladdened the heart of 

 in artist. Away to the left old Mount Washington reared 

 *? us lofty head far up into cloudland, while on either side 

 stood others of no mean elevation, all serving to separate, 

 ' is it were, the valley from the outside world, while long 

 stretches of rolling woodland, far extended, bounded the 

 new, and seemed to tone down its general effect. Guide 

 )ook writers are pleased to designate the stream as the 

 beautiful Ammonoosuc." If not the most beautiful, it 

 s at least the most rapid stream in New Hampshire, de- 

 scending, as it does, upwards of five thousand feet in its 

 comparatively short course from it head waters to its junc- 

 lon with the Connecticut River. It is formed by the 

 unction of two brooks, named from the mountains in 

 vhich they respectively take their rise, viz: Mount Jeffer- 

 ou and Mount Clay. It runs smoothly along for several 

 QUes until reaching a spot where the contraction of its 

 ocky banks giving it additional impetus, it rushes madly 

 ■long and dashes over a fall of some twenty feet, widening 

 'ut into a pool, the deep dark waters and circling eddies of 

 wuch would satisfy the craving of the most fastidious flsh- 

 rman. Surely, thought I, there must be trout, if any are 

 a the stream. Adjusting my rod, I put on a brown hen 

 ■ g a tail fly, with a red hackle for a dropper, and prepared 

 •;,;■ r my first cast. Cast after cast were made with all the 

 x . i could command, without any signs of fish. After 

 ; flipping every inch of surface in the pool, I concluded 

 ,[ at my speckled friends had gone to attend a convention 

 ii either down stream, and, fisherman like, decided to make 

 /JM more cast before following them. Changing the brown 

 i ' n for an ibis, I threw under the falls and drew across to 

 i i water beneath an overhanging rock. A roll, a quick 

 v nu a responsive turn of the wrist, and I had him. As 

 7 elt the hook he straightway led off for the other side 

 'i w J pool, where an old stump, lying half in and half 

 or the water, offered him a safe haven. Ah! how he 

 %i trn ' 5° W ° ld rod > victor in man y a well-waged fight, 

 i fourth ben , d 'i ut d0 not b ™k. Steady, give it to him 

 > j *wjy, sol Foiled in his first dasa for liberty, he darted 



to the bottom and there lay sulking in six feet of water. 

 A steady strain brought him to his senses, and after one or, 

 two frantic attempts to free himself he gave up the fight— 

 another victim of misplaced confidence. Nobly had he 

 fought, and it was with no little satisfaction that I dropped 

 a pound and a half trout into my creel . Picking my way 

 down stream, I meantime kept adding to my string, till 

 having secured seventy-six very good average trout I shoul- 

 dered my rod and bent my steps homeward, very well 

 pleased with the day's sport. 



Jefferson Brook was my next objective point; accord- 

 ingly, on the next afternoon, mounted upon the box of one 

 of the meuntain stages, I was soon bowling along behind 

 a six horse team in the direction of the base of Mount 

 Washington, A pleasant drive of six miles brought me to 

 Marshfield, where, nestling under the shadows of Mount 

 Washington, stands the Marshfield House, offering accom- 

 modation for man and beast. Here I proceeded to make 

 myself comfortable for the night, intending to take an 

 early start the next morning. Long before the sun's rays 

 had dispelled the mists that hung upon the mountains I 

 breakfasted, and in company with my genial host, who 

 volunteered to put me on the path that crossed the brook, 

 we started out. Our route lay up the track of the Mount 

 Washington Railway for half a mile, whence we struck off 

 on to Mount Clay, and after a short walk came upon an old 

 bridle path that had in former years served as an approach 

 to the summit. Here my guide bade me adieu, with the 

 remark that the path was just a little bit blind, but he 

 guessed I could find the brook if I kept my eye peeled. 

 Profiting by his advice, I pushed on through the thick 

 woods for an hour or more, when the dull, sullen murmur 

 of the brook broke upon my ear. Standing on its bank, a 

 single glance satisfied me that whatever fish were taken 

 from its waters must be taken with something other than 

 a fly. Now I know some fishermen who would have given 

 that brook the go-by, because to fish it with a fly was sim- 

 ply out of the question. Not being troubled with any such 

 scruples, I had provided myself with a supply of bait be- 

 fore starting, and rigging up a short line, with an inviting 

 worm upon a Sproat bent hook, 1 introduced it to the fa- 

 vorable notice of the denizens of Jefferson Brook. Oh, 

 but it was lively work! There was hardly an inch of water 

 that did not cover a trout. Pool after pool yielded up its 

 finny inhabitants, and several times I took as many as twenty 

 trout from a single hole. The fun grew hotter and hotter, 

 without any sign of abatement, but the lengthening shad- 

 ows warned me that if I intended to get out of the bush 

 before dark it was now time to make the start. Emptying 

 my creel upon a mossy bank, I found that my catch had 

 yielded me just two hundred and thirty-seven fish. I think 

 I hear you say— ah! yes; all very well; minnows, of course. 

 On the contrary, they were a handsome me3s of trout, 

 many of them running up to ten inches in length. Com- 

 pelled to travel down the brook in order to get out, the 

 thick woods on either side precluding all hope of a pass- 

 age, bo much good ground was passed over that I decided 

 to give that brook another call. 



Seven o'clock next morning found me on the road, it 

 being my intention to strike the brook at its mouth and 

 fish up to where I had left off on the previous day. I was 

 soon at work, but something was evidently wrong, for, 

 though fishing very carefully, not a single fin did I see. 

 On I went, however, clambering np the brook, when sud- 

 denly they commenced to bite. Prom that time I had my 

 hands full. ''Trout to the right of me, trout to the left of 

 me, trout right in front of me, bit and were captured." 

 Finally, from sheer inability to creel any more, I was 

 forced to reel up and quit. On reaching home I found my 

 catch was within one of that of the previous day, making 

 a total of four hundred and seventy- three fish for the two 

 days. 



I might go on and tell you how, with a brother fisher- 

 man, we took some eighty fish from a mill pond under the 

 shadow of the Fabyan House, four of which weighed a 

 pound apiece, but desiring, with your permission, to give 

 you some account of a camping trip, I hasten on. On my 

 return to the Fabyan I found a marked degree of excite- 



ment prevalent in consequence of the circulation of certain 

 marvelous stories respecting the number and weight of 

 trout to be obtained from certain ponds situated in the 

 woods about sixty miles distant from our headquarters. 

 These ponds were said to be connected with each other 

 by a stream which rose in the mountains, by which they 

 were fed, and which also served to discharge them into the 

 Connecticut. The reports were set forth with so much of 

 particularity and apparent truthfulness that a small but 

 enthusiastic party was formed on the spot in order to visit 

 them, and, by personal inspection, to test their quality and 

 productiveness. Ourarragements were speedily completed, 

 and oh the morning of the 27th of August last our party 

 set out, and in due season arrived at Northumberland, a 

 station on the Grand Trunk Railroad, where we were to 

 meet our guide. Here we turned our backs on the iron 

 horse, and took our places on a buck board wagon, that 

 was to take us some miles further on our way. Our guide, 

 who rejoices in the name of Ethan Allen Crawford, and is 

 a grandson of the famous pioneer of the same name who 

 firsj carried civilization into the White Mountain region, 

 took the ribbons, and as he sat in front, mounted on an 

 empty box, stark, stalwart, six feet, and the very personi- 

 fication of cheery good humor, we had every reason to 

 congratulate ourselves upon having secured so valuable an 

 addition to our party. We found him to be a most enthu- 

 siastic fishermen, and having lived in the neighborhood all 

 his life he knew every inch of water in the region. Not a 

 pond or stream did we pass but that he entertained us with 

 piscatorial reminiscences respecting how, in days gone by, 

 he had filled his basket from this or that spot. A ride of 

 five miles brought us to a log shanty in the edge of the 

 woods, which Ethan said was as far as wheels could carry 

 us, and that we must trust to our legs the rest of the way. 

 This shanty was occupied by Otis Pike, whom our shouts 

 soon brought to the door. He and Ethan being old com- 

 rades in many a fishing scrape, we at once received a hearty 

 weleome, and preparations for dinner were soon under 

 way. Having satisfied the inner man, we lit our pipes and 

 calmly entertained ourselves by watching Ethan's arrange- 

 ments for the tramp. Approaching the wagon, he pulled 

 from among the boxes that had served us for seats two 

 smaller ones fitted with straps, so that they might be slung 

 as knapsacks, into which ho packed our provisions and 

 cooking utensils. He then turned his attention to us, and, 

 subjecting us to a close scrutiny, insisted upon our leaving 

 everything behind save oar rods and the clothes we stood 

 in, remarking, with a quiet smile, that we had about ten 

 miles of the hardest kind of traveling before us ere we 

 might expect to see camp. Slinging one of the packs on 

 his own back, and the other on that of his friend Pike, 

 whom he had persuaded to accompany us, he gave the 

 word, forward! Graspins: our poles, all fell in, and soon 

 lost sight of everything except the thick woods by which 

 we were surrounded. The trail lay along the spur of a 

 mountain, and followed for some distance a good sized 

 stream, that served as the outlet to the ponds towards 

 which we were journeying. Toiling along, we reached a 

 bridge where Ethan ordered a halt for rest, and informed 

 us, as he unslung his pack, we had come half way, but 

 somewhat dampened our ardor by intimating that the worst 

 part of the road was yet before us. We found his words 

 only too true, the trail leading us through windfalls, over 

 fallen trees, and into holes of every shape and size, till we 

 were almost ready to give up. Encouraged, however, by 

 our cheerful and indefatigable leader, we pressed on, and 

 at nine o'clock in the evening arrived at camp, having 

 walked the last two miles by birch bark torch light. Pike 

 soon had a rousing fire ablaze, and while he was preparing 

 supper we were studying the surroundings. The shanty 

 as Ethan called it, proved to be a very good log house sit- 

 uated on a knoll near the edge of the water, commanding 

 a view of the pond from shore to shore, and though built 

 by a party of loggers several years ago was still in a good 

 state of preservation, and promised a safe and comfortable 

 shelter against the weather. Pike's summons to supper 

 having put a stop to our observations, we were soon busy 

 discussing the merits of salt pork and coffee, Having sat j 



