45^ 



RECREATION 



minute." And with this, he shuffled in 

 his peculiar gait up the path. 



Now, "Jack" is a beautiful brook 

 trout living in Joe's spring, and my 

 feeding him was a joke, for no human 

 hand or voice, except Joe's, could coax 

 this fish from the crevices in the rough 

 stone wall of the big spring, where he 

 had lived for years. I tried the 

 daintiest and fattest grasshoppers and 

 crickets, but all to no purpose. 



Joe returned in a few moments with 

 a pitcher of cider and a plate of "fried- 

 cakes." He sat them down on the milk- 

 bench and smiled as he watched my 

 fruitless attempts to feed "Jack." 



"What's the matter? Ain't he 

 hungry?" he asked., 



"Don't seem so," I answered as I 

 handed him a couple of grasshoppers 

 and a bug. 



Joe snapped his fingers over the 

 water and clucked in a peculiar way. 

 Immediately a long, dark shadow dart- 

 ed out of a crevice in the stonework 

 near the bottom. Without any apparent 

 motion it raised slowly to the surface, 

 where a cricket struggled as if aware 

 of the threatening danger. Suddenly 

 the shadow vanished. The water broke 

 with a splash, and the cricket was 

 gone. The water stilled and there lay 

 "Jack" a few inches below the sur- 

 face, lazily coaxing for more. 



Many times have I watched Joe feed 

 his pet, but always. with renewed won- 

 der and admiration at the beauty of 

 the fish, a perfect specimen of brook 

 ,trout, measuring at least fifteen inches. 

 His mottled back was almost black 

 from continual hiding. His sides were 

 silvery white, and each large red spot 

 was encircled with a purple ring. His 

 shoulders denoted great strength ; his 

 lithe body great speed, and his well- 

 shaped head more than ordinary trout 

 intelligence. 



"Ain' he a dandy?" asked Joe, as 

 the trout whisked insect after insect 

 from the surface of the water, and the 

 spring was a mass of bubbles and spray. 



"I think he is the finest trout I ever 

 saw," I answered, slowly sipping the 



cider and all but lost in studying the 

 actions of the pet. 



"I see a better one once. Purtier, 

 bigger, and livlier. I reckon he was a 

 better trout than ye see nowadays." 



My newspaper instinct was aroused. 

 I saw the shadow of a story, but knew 

 better than interrupt his reveries. I 

 passed my cigar-case, and sat on a cor- 

 ner of the milk-bench watching "Jack." 

 Joe stood rolling the cigar in his mouth 

 and staring straight into the pool. 

 But I knew it was another trout he 

 saw, the "bigger one" ; and his eyes 

 were seeing things of years ago. 



"He was a good deal bigger than 

 'Jack.' Just four pounds he weighed 

 on the old steelyards, and he measured 

 twenty inches by a carpenter's square. 

 Say, but he certainly was a beauty. 



"Fifty years ago it was come Satur- 

 day. In those days the old creek took 

 a big bend about a quarter of a mile 

 below here and right on the turn was 

 a big elm tree, its thousands of rope- 

 like roots awash and forming a per- 

 fect hiding place for trout. The water 



