TWO TROUT STORIES. 



C E. HANSEN. 



In Western Connecticut, in the Housa- 

 tonic valley, at the foot of the Berkshire 

 hills, flows Half Mile river, one of the 

 best trout streams in New England. It is 

 never dry, and in its many deep pools the 

 trout find secure refuge. One day in 

 May a friend and I started early for the 

 brook, to have a day's fishing. The winds 

 were cold and chilling, but the sun was 

 warm and we were happy. The brook 

 sang varying melodies; here a murmurous 

 andante, as it flowed into a wide pool, there 

 a thunderous forte, as it drove over a 

 precipitous rock. The birds had not ar- 

 rived, and we missed their notes of glad- 

 ness, but a pair of woodcock, flushed in 

 the brush, gave us for a moment their 

 joyous companionship. 



As the water was high we had to forego 

 the fanciful fly and resort to the lowly 

 angle worm. Soon a fat, juicy wriggler 

 dangled on the Aberdeen, and I dropped 

 it into the current just above the pool and 

 awaited results. 



In a moment there was a tug on the line. 

 A quick strike, a bending of the supple 

 rod, and a l / 2 pound trout darted back and 

 forth through the pool. Winding the line 

 rapidly on the reel, and elevating the rod, 

 I held in my hand our first trout. A mo- 

 ment later my companion had its mate and 

 we separated. I devoted all my attention 

 to the pools where the big fish are sup- 

 posed to lurk. In a brief time I had sev- 

 eral good bites, but through bad manage- 

 ment or ill luck, lost some big fellows. 



I had come to a long rapid, midway of 

 which was one lone stone, standing dry, on 

 which I could stand, though rather un- 

 comfortably. This I did not notice so 

 much as a likely pool 25 feet below. Trees 

 and bushes were all about me, and it re- 

 quired my utmost skill to keep my line 

 from entangling while casting. Beneath 

 me surged 3 feet of dark, cold water that 

 I shrank from stepping into. I poised on 

 one foot, and by careful management at 

 last succeeded in dropping the bait plump 

 into the swirl of the eddy on the edge of 

 the pool. An instant response came and 

 I began to reel in. The stream was wide 

 and the trout had plenty of room. As I 

 drew him nearer he espied the cause of 

 all his trouble and fought harder than ever. 



"My fish," thought I, but when I reached 

 for him he freed himself by a desperate 

 effort and flopped into the water, back to 

 his freedom. I longed for my waders. 

 They were 20 miles away. Discouraged 

 by my ill luck, I kept moving until I over- 

 took my companion. Then we had lunch, 

 after which I took a nap on the sunny side 

 of a cordwood pile and dreamed of fish 

 for an hour. 



Awaking, I brushed the cobwebs from 

 my eyes and started up stream. I had 4 



trout, all good ones, and my companion 

 had twice as many. Coming to a pool not 

 far from my resting place, I cast. The 

 pool had been divided into 2 parts by a 

 heap of brush thrown in by wood chop- 

 pers. This brush was high and reached 

 across the brook and around the sides of 

 the pool. To the left was a large tree 

 which had blown down and lay half sub- 

 merged in the left division of the pool. 

 Running under the tree and close to the 

 bank the current carried my bait into the 

 very dooryard of a large trout. He took 

 the bait eagerly, and when I struck, he 

 assured me he was over a pound in weight. 

 I remember well his manoeuvers. He 

 surged from side to side, now on top of 

 the water, and, like a flash, under again. 

 I felt encouraged, but doubtful of landing 

 him in that place. Determined not to lose 

 him I jumped into the brush near the 

 water's edge, holding my rod high. Both 

 feet went through, and ugh! I was knee 

 deep in ice-cold water. 



The trout, meanwhile, had gained the 

 brush, the double snell was sawed in two 

 and he was free! Adjectives, were useless, 

 so I tied on a new hook, baited it and 

 got myself free from the unpleasant situ- 

 ation. 



As I reached the top of the bank I 

 turned to take one last, mournful look at 

 the scene of my recent experience, when, 

 to my surprise, I saw my late captive leap 

 out of the water, rush through the rapids 

 again, and, after another leap, roll belly 

 upward, evidently hurt. Dropping my pole, 

 with a wild hurrah, I rushed down that 

 slippery tree trunk at imminent risk to 

 leg and neck. Splash! I was into the 

 pool up to my waist. A hurried glance 

 discovered the trout with the hook and 

 snell dangling from his jaw. Reaching 

 down in the deep water to my armpits I 

 sought to grasp him, but he was muscular 

 and slipped away, swimming under the 

 brush and,jnto the pool on the other side. 

 Nothing daunted I followed him about 

 that pool for seyeral minutes, getting into 

 deeper water at every step. Watching my 

 opportunity, when he had just finished one 

 of his desperate rushes, I reached down, 

 the waters surging over my shoulders, and 

 he was mine! 



I lifted him from the water and viewed 

 him at arm's length. He was a beauty. I 

 stood in that icy torrent for several min- 

 utes, regardless of everything else but my 

 capture. Then wading ashore I put him 

 into my basket, leaving his tail sticking out 

 over the edge. When I appeared before 

 my companion he naturally wanted to 

 know why and how I took such a bath at 

 that time of year. My answer was to point 

 to the tail sticking out of the basket- 



"Ah! I see^" was his comment. 



