WITH WORMS FOR BAIT. 



AL. 



"Do you know," said Mrs. C, "I am tired 

 of fly fishing for bass, especially when they 

 run as small as they have lately. What 

 has become of the big fellows?" 



"I presume you caught all of them last 

 summer,'' I replied. 



Mrs. C, be it known, is a crack-a-jack 

 with rod and reel, and not a little proud of 

 her prowess. We were sitting on the porch 

 admiring a brilliant sunset following an af- 

 ternoon thunder storm. The rain had 

 driven us from the lake earlier than we 

 were wont to leave it. That day our catch, 

 for 3 persons, mind you, was 4 bass, barely 

 above legal size. It was discouraging, I 

 admit. 



"We might try the trout," suggested 

 Mr. C. 



"But you say," said Mrs. C, turning to 

 me, "that all the trout streams hereabout 

 are preserved." 



"That is true," I answered; "at least as 

 regards streams known to contain trout. 

 But when I was a boy I fished all the water 

 in this region, and I think I can find a 

 little brook that used richly to reward my 

 trouble in reaching it. No one but I knew 

 of it in those days, and perhaps no one has 

 discovered it since. I remember that when 

 going there I used to walk miles out of my 

 way. lest anyone should follow me." 



"Let's go there to-morrow !" cried Mrs. 

 C. "How far is it?" 



"About 4 miles across lots or 6 by the 

 road." 



"Then we'll start at sunrise and go across 

 lots," she said. 



"I doubt if you would care to walk so 

 far through woods," I replied. "Besides, 

 your tackle would be useless ; there is no 

 open water for casting." 



"Then we'll fish with bait," said Mrs. C. 



"I don't know where you will get it," her 

 husband remarked. "I heard a boy at the 

 hotel say there was not a worm within a 

 mile. If he could not find any, I'm not 

 going to try." 



"Well," I said, "near that brook is a 

 farm house belonging to old friends of 

 mine. We'll get worms there if we have 

 to dig their garden over." 



So it was agreed we should try the trout 

 and we did so the next day, starting at day- 

 break and carrying only a can for the worms 



we hoped to find, and lines and hooks. It 

 was a bright, clear morning, with every 

 promise of a fine day. We reached the 

 farm house by 8 o'clock and received from 

 the old couple a hearty welcome ; also much 

 incidental milk and sweet cider. After 

 resting a while, we dug our bait and went 

 on a half mile or so to the brook. 



"Here we are," I said, when we came at 

 last to a great field of ripening timothy. 



"But," cried Mrs. C, "we don't want 

 hay." 



"Surely not," I said. "We want trout, 

 and we'll find them in this hay." 



"You must be mistaken," said Mr. C, 

 gazing over the field, "there is no water 

 here." 



"Yes, there is," I replied, "unless it has 

 dried up or moved away. We will cut some 

 alder poles at this hedge and rig our lines. 

 Then you follow me and I will try to keep 

 you from stepping in the brook. 



In the middle of the field we came, surely 

 enough, on a little spring brook, not 3 feet 

 wide. 



"Now," said I, "bait your hooks and drop 

 them in any open water you see, letting the 

 worm just touch the surface." 



Before I had finished my instructions 

 and was yet struggling with a refractory 

 worm, I heard a cry from Mrs. C. and saw 

 a 10-inch trout flying heavenward. We 

 worked our way through the tall grass to 

 the woods, occasionally making a finny 

 capture. Then through the woods we went 

 until the little stream was lost in a swamp. 

 We retraced our steps, fishing carefully, 

 lest we should have overlooked some likely 

 spot. We were about ready to give up when 

 Mrs. C. took a 14-inch fish from the 

 stream she could have stepped ac/oss at its 

 widest point. That was the last and crown- 

 ing triumph of the day. 



We returned to the farm house carrying 

 22 trout on a forked twig and 3 inexpress- 

 ibly contented souls wherever you are 

 pleased to locate them. My good old 

 friends had a bountiful dinner ready for 

 us, with more milk and cider. Later, and 

 until it was time to trudge homeward, we 

 lounged under the big elms in the farm 

 yard and wondered when we would enjoy 

 another so glorious a day. 



Johnson — He said I was an addle pated 

 jackass. What do you advise me to do 

 about it? 



Jackson — See a good veterinary. — Judge. 

 435 



