A JUNE MORNING ON A TROUT BROOK. 



H. A. SCOTT, M. D. 



The warm June sun is breaking through 

 the misty tree tops; the balmy South 

 wind, perfume laden, blows softly into my 

 face, as I pause to eat my lunch, beside the 

 clear, rippling creek. Out on the marsh 

 I hear the merry "bob-o-link, bob-o-link," 

 and the musical whistle of the red winged 

 blackbird. Off across the meadow a 

 thrush has awaited the rising sun, and as 

 its gilded rays diffuse themselves among 

 the budding branches he breaks forth in 

 his matin song of praise, rilling the air 

 with melody. On the brook the haze 

 still hovers, and through it I hear the 

 merry leaping of the trout. A sudden 



SOME OF THE OLD FELLOWS. 



breeze loops up the gauzy curtain, and I 

 catch a gleam of rubies, as the sun glints 

 on their sides, or a flash of diamonds, as 

 they plunge back, and the spray falls, in 

 countless beads, on the surface. 



Since the earliest grey tinge of dawn my 

 arm has been busy. As I empty my creel 

 and almost reverently lay the 14 beauties- 

 warriors, every one of them — side by side 

 on their jewel studded armor. I feel I am 

 entitled to my bite of bread and cheese, 

 washed down with copious draughts of the 

 clear, cold water rippling and eddying at 



my feet. As I lie there, a tree toad chir- 

 rups in a tree hard by, while a red squir- 

 rel, from a neighboring branch, chatters 

 saucily a moment; then, with a whisk of 

 his tail, scampers noisily out of sight. 



For a time I lie there, listening and en- 

 joying, more than tongue can tell, the old 

 familiar sounds; but at last a high sun 

 warns me to be on my way. Carefully 

 wrapping my trout in moist grass, I re- 

 place them in the creel, and once more 

 step into the brook, to follow its pebbly 

 pathway back to the bridge. Cautiously 

 I work my way along until I reach a cer- 

 tain sunken log, about which the water 

 surges and roars, in that extravagant man- 

 ner common to small but irascible bodies. 

 This log is an old acquaintance of mine, 

 and I know there lurks beneath it another 

 old acquaintance, who, I am sure, knows 

 me quite as well as I know him. Many 

 and many an hour have I spent in a vain 

 endeavor to coax that old trout into my 

 basket. He will rise easily enough. In- 

 deed, he loves to take the fly in mid-air, 

 but his control is perfect, always. I can 

 usually tell just where he will take the 

 fly. which way he will go with it. and from 

 which particular root I shall have to dis- 

 engage the hook later. This knowledge 

 does me no good, however, for I seem 

 powerless to prevent it; so I always reel 

 up and turn homeward, vowing I'll never 

 try him again. Of course I know I will. 

 the next time I am out. I know life would 

 lose half its zest were it not for those 

 little battles with that old trout; but I al- 

 ways feel better for the swear-off. It 

 makes the next contest more exciting. 



Someway I feel, to-day, that fortune is 

 with me, and I stand a moment watching 

 the old log. in the hope of seeing my 

 friend, for the last time, on his favorite 

 battleground. He is there. I am sure, so 

 I select his favorite hackle and carefully 

 drop it in the most tempting position 1 

 can reach. No result. A second east, and 

 he dashes out. with the evident determina- 

 tion of taking line, reel and all. After 

 the usual preliminary skirmish in open 

 water he darts, with the speed <>i an ar- 

 row, for the old water-logged root-. I 

 have, however, chosen an entirely new 

 position, and can. at last, block that mi 

 My confidence increases as his frantic 

 leaps and vicious lunges fail. Carefully and 

 successfully I parry them all. and slowly 

 but surely I gain over him. though at 

 times my heart sinks below water level, in 

 fear that I have lost him. 



435 



