A TROUT BROOK TRIUMPH 



327 



ing mess in the pot over the camp five. 

 Near by the terminal vertebrae of an 

 animal with a bit of armadillo-like skin 

 disclosed the probable nature of the con- 

 coction over the fire. 



"Pass yer cup and have a taste of some 

 of this here soup," said Pete, and then and 

 there I took my first mouthful of beaver-tail 



(To be continued) 



soup. A chef on the Atlantic coast line can 

 as soon produce the like of this wildland 

 dish as the landscape gardener can repro- 

 duce Darlinkcl's park in the suburbs of 

 New York. 



Beaver are not found in Eastern mar- 

 kets, and their tails do not hang in Eastern 

 ice-chests. 



A TROUT BROOK TRIUMPH 



BY BARAK MEADE 



THE Judge was 

 leaving for the 

 brooks of 

 Northern New York, 

 and over the salad that 

 he and three good fel- 

 lows were eating down 

 at Old Tom's the night 

 of the first real spring 

 day of the season he 

 told this story of his 

 last year's fishing: 



"When fishing 

 weather came last April 

 I simply ached to get 

 away to the wcods and 

 the brooks. The first 

 night of the spring 

 weather, and it was 

 just such a night as 

 this, I got out my 

 tackle and before the 

 lazy fire in my library 

 went through it all just 

 as I do every year. 

 Every old, bedraggled 

 fly, each yard of frayed 

 line, the reels and the 

 springy rods brought 

 back memories of 

 splendid days on the 

 brooks, and I planned 

 an early trip to the 

 singing Squawkill. But 

 business went wrong 

 and I had a grind of 

 it. It was not until 



THE BIG ONE 



August that I could go 

 after the trout, and the 

 season is pretty late 

 then, you know. I had 

 never missed spring 

 fishing before in twelve 

 years. 



"I went up to my 

 cousin's farm beyond 

 the Adirondacks. 

 That's where the 

 Squawkill is. Jim met 

 me at the station, and 

 as we drove out to the 

 farm he told me of the 

 trout that had been 

 creeled that season : 

 ' Now, there's four half- 

 pounders and an old 

 fellow that will go near 

 two pounds lying in the 

 pool beneath Simkins 

 bridge. I have tried, 

 Joe Reed and two city 

 fellows have tried to 

 hook them, but we 

 could not get even a 

 rise. I reckon that I 

 have spent more than 

 three days after that 

 big fellow, and I have 

 given him up. See 

 what you can do; it's 

 your only chance 

 around here now.' 



"When we reached 

 the farm, I tramped 



