A PLAIN TALE OF THE WOODS. 



F. A. VERPLANCK. 



As a boy I liked to go fishing, and as a 

 man I have not lost my liking for a rod 

 and line ; but I fail somewhat of reaching 

 the standard demanded of the ideal angler, 

 for I can not sit all day in a boat and 

 drown worms nor can 1 follow a reputed 

 trout brook all day without a nibble. I can 

 not patiently endure the pleasantries of my 

 family when I return tired and hungry, with 

 an empty basket, after a day's fishing. On 

 the other hand, I am not devoted to fishing 

 for the sake of the fish, yet in order that 

 fishing may have any pleasure for me, at 

 occasional and irregular intervals fish must 

 be caught. 



For several years I had longed to go 

 where fish could be caught by an amateur. 

 I had also wished to go far into the prime- 

 val woods, where I could be free from the 

 bustle and worry of civilization. Uncon- 

 sciously to me, the wood gods were calling. 



After reading many advertisements, I se- 

 lected a camp remote from the railroad and 

 wrote the proprietor. I received a prompt 

 reply saying that the camp was surrounded 

 with lakes and streams in which trout rose 

 to the fly every day in the summer, that 

 deer were often seen, that prices were rea- 

 sonable, and that I would be welcome. 



The phrase, "trout rose to the fly," set me 

 thinking. I had never seen a fly. My list 

 of bait had included crickets, frogs, dob- 

 sons, and the ordinary worm, which I after- 

 ward learned to call a ground hackle. 1 

 dispatched a second letter confessing my ig- 

 norance of fly fishing, and asked instruc- 

 tions as to what I should buy. In that I was 

 wise. The reply gave me exact and minute 

 instructions as to rods, lines and flies. It 

 also contained a sentence which at the time 

 made little impression on me, but which I 

 afterward found to be full of significance. 

 It said, "I will meet you at Bemis and con- 

 duct you to camp." 



An afternoon in Boston and a badly bro- 

 ken $20 bill supplied me with the necessary 

 equipment for fly fishing. An earlv start 

 from Boston and a long ride by rail took 

 my wife and me at sunset to the end of the 

 narrow gauge. There we found a good 

 stage, and a ride of 12 miles or more took 

 us to the Hunt house, a good supper and a 

 good bed. 



After breakfast the next morning my edu- 

 cation began. Before noon I had learned 

 more about the Maine woods than I could 

 have learned in a dozen evenings from 

 books. The ways and manners of the Maine 

 guide or hotel proprietor are worthy of 

 study. He is a gentleman. He does not ob- 

 trude his superior knowledge of the woods 



on you, yet, if you are observant, you may 

 learn from many an apparently chance le- 

 mark. 



I found that Joe's camp was 16 miles 

 away, somewhat more remote from the rail- 

 road than I had supposed. I said that joe 

 was coming to "conduct me to camp," and 

 that I had written him to meet me. The 

 proprietor of the hotel said, "Joe did not 

 come out last night. He will leave his 

 camp early this morning and you will see 

 him about 3 o'clock this afternoon. He will 

 take you in to camp to-morrow." Eight 

 or 10 hours for 16 miles ! I began to real- 

 ize that the road must have some charac- 

 teristics with which I was unfamiliar. My 

 face may have revealed my state of mind, 

 for one of the witnesses remarked, "That 

 road out to Joe's is a little rough in some 

 places." The hint was enough, and I asked 

 no more questions. I would take the road 

 as I found it and would soon know all 

 about it. 



Hotel proprietors sometimes make mis- 

 takes, for at 10 o'clock Joe came. He had 

 left his camp early and had come straight 

 through. He had pushed a pair of horses 

 over 16 miles in 5 hours. I afterward 

 learned that it was the record. If it had not 

 been the talk of the town for the morning, 

 the feat would not have surprised me. Soon 

 Joe announced that after feeding and a 

 short rest for the horses, he proposed to re- 

 turn. This upset all local traditions. No 

 team had ever been over that road twice 

 in one day. No Yankee would do it. Joe's 

 German blood was held accountable. 



I had time to examine Joe's buckboard 

 I had seen buckboards at Bar Harbor, but 

 this was not of the Bar Harbor variety. 

 The wheels were as large as the wheels of 

 a heavy team wagon, and the connecting 

 links were planks. It was not painted and 

 was banged and marred. It had evidently 

 seen much service, largely over that 16 miles 

 of road. 



When Joe asked for my baggage, I scored 

 my first success, for I brought out 2 suit 

 cases. "I guess you have been in the woods 

 before. They generally bring 2 trunks," 

 said one of the witnesses ; but Joe was get- 

 ting out rope enough to rig a small cat- 

 boat. It all went to tie the suit cases on 

 the buckboard. My respect for the 16 miles 

 increased. 



At last we were off. The road out of the 

 village was smooth and pleasant ; but we 

 soon came to Deep river, which we had to 

 ford. We began to realize that we were 

 off the macadam. Of late our country has 

 experienced a great wave of interest in good 



