350 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Mat 28, 1885. 



of the water. This is a favorite plan of mine after a rain- 

 storm, where trout are scarce and when the hrook is falling. 

 What! none ; is it possible? Try again. I do so, and again. 

 No! Not even a rise nor the sign of one. Let the bait sink. 

 It disappears. Ha! there is one at it; a little oue. Come 

 along fishie. What! a miserable chub? Go back. You 

 were only intended for trout food. Another bite. Here he 

 comes. A, redfin I think they call you. I have caught 

 plenty of trout with your kind in their maws. I am begin- 

 ning to be disgusted. What! a shiner this time? Why, 

 what kind of a place have I come to? I will go to the bank 

 and look into the stream and see if I can see anything. Just 

 at this moment a gleam of sunshine comes through a rift in the 

 clouds. I peer over carefully, and there, so far as I can see, 

 is a peck or more of suckers and chub and redfins and 

 shiners, all spread along the bottom of the hole and seeming 

 to feed in the utmost harmony. This don't look like trout, I 

 say to myself. But here is a nice place to get bait for bass 

 and pickerel fishing. But now I put on some flies, a coach- 

 man, a red hackle and brown gnat. Here goes. There may 

 be a trout in the neighborhood that will be tempted by one 

 of these. Yes, be re goes. Wbew! Is the water alive? A fish 

 on every hook, and every one seeni3 to have found the very 

 fly that he was in search of, chub and shiner and redfin, but 

 no trout. Will try again by that log. It looks deep there. 

 I do so, and again these miserable bait fish have seized my 

 flies. It would be no use to attempt to catch them all out in 

 the hopes of getting a trout, I would have to fish for a week, 

 and you may be sure there are very few trout where these 

 fish are so plenty. There is everything indeed to make me 

 think that this is a skinned stream. But here I would inter- 

 rupt my narrative to say that when a few days after this 

 some of the boarders in the house wanted bait fish to take to 

 the lake, and asked me if I would not catch them some or 

 help them get minnows, that I put on three small flies one 

 evening and in half an hour had all the fish they wanted. 

 Those too large for bait were thrown back again into the 

 stream. 



But now I go in, and my ardor is cooling— I try the worm 

 again. What splendid woodcock ground, I say to myself 

 as I walk along, has been destroyed here. But there is 

 plenty of it here, and untouched* Now I am crossing a 

 sweet little brook, with a grand bottom, clear as crystal. 

 There must be a fish at its mouth, where it runs into the 

 larger stream. That is a deep hole there. Stand hack from 

 it and cast a long line. No, nothing ! Is that so ? Let 

 the hook sink. A bite! Here he comes. Another check, 

 and then another, and another. Oh, go on. Now, there is 

 a rock in the stream; try behind it; and there are more 

 bushes and trees by the side of the bank. No; none here 

 either, and the moment the line sinks a redfin or a chub is 

 on. But wait. There must be a fish in that hole by the 

 bridge. I feel that there is — feel it in my arms. I wonder 

 if I have lost my skill since I have been sick? The old rod 

 will get disgusted directly. Well, the trout here, I say to 

 myself, are really a little too scarce for pleasure. I did" not 

 count upon this. I am afraid Sam will have the laugh on 

 me. He said I would get none; that if the boys around 

 here could not get any. the city chaps had not much chance. 

 But I try, and 1 declare not one yet. 



Now I am coming to more alders, and just below that 

 place where it ripples so there seems to be a hole. Don't 

 give up yet. Have the fun of fishing even if you do not get 

 any. If it were only the season of birds I could enjoy my- 

 self; but all, except a few thrushes and occasionally a spar- 

 row or a robin or avireo, seem to have stopped singing around 

 these parts. But try there. Stand far back and let your 

 bait float down. That is it. Whew! what a thrill goes 

 through my arm. I have bim, and there is a spluttering on 

 the water away below me. Reel up quick. Don't slacken 

 on him. It may he a trout. Here he comes. Yes, it is a 

 trout. Let me look at you, you pretty fellow . It does seem 

 a shame to kill you; but I am not well now, nor is Mrs. 

 Stillaboy, and we have an invalid friend at the house. Ah, 

 what apologies we can make for our sport; but you were 

 made to eat, and,like a strawberry, with an extremely good 

 flavor. He is a nrce fish, nine inches long, and as beautifully 

 marked as a trout could be. And now "my spirits begin to 

 revive. I have one fish, and I am coming to the woods and 

 may possibly get more. 



1 have waded the stream (it is not deep), and am approach- 

 ing a bend in it where it turns from the meadows above into 

 the alders. The tall woods are not far below me. I can just 

 manage to peep over a bush and see my bait as it touches the 

 water. A fish rises to the surface and seems to push his nose 

 against the bait and then goes down again. I raise the rod 

 and drop the bait again, and again the fish does as before. I 

 know what he wants. He won't take the bait. He wants a 

 fly. Now he rises and has caught a miller that was floating 

 on the water. I wonder what kind of one it was. I will try 

 him with a coachman and a red hackle. He jumps again. 

 But now I am ready. I have him. A trout, too, and good 

 sized — and I think I saw another one come to the surface 

 when he took hold. But I try again and 1 have another one. 

 I wonder is he large enough to keep. Yes, he is a good six 

 and a half inches. I am almost sorry for him. He looks so 

 much smaller than either of the other fish. There is no use 

 trying here any more. But what is the meaning of this wave 

 coming up the stream and disturbing the quiet surface of the 

 little pond? Let me see. I approach carefully, and there, 

 in his brown coat of summer, is a large mink, that swims 

 away down stream as he sees my head over the bushes. 

 His bright beadlike eyes look at me, as much as to say "why 

 what are you doing here?" 



And now I am nearly half way to where Skinned Stream 

 empties into the Shepang River. I have been working 

 hard for two hours and have three fish. The features of the 

 stream are changing now. It is becoming more rapid. I 

 am passing under very tall alders as I wade. The waters 

 are spread out over a gravel bed some fifteen feet wide and 

 a hundred feet long. They are only three or four inches 

 deep and the alders arch overhead, forming a beautiful 

 avenue as you look down the stream. "What a spawning 

 ground this must have been, I say to myself, in past days. 

 But I am playing my line away" below me, when the first 

 thing I feel a* bite. The line has searched the lower end of 

 the gravel bed, when the stream contracts and passes into 

 what is seemingly a pool. I strike and 1 have a fish on. It 

 is not large 1 know. Feels like a chub. I reel away and 

 here he comes. Why, he is a little trout, five inches long. 

 He is not hurt, so 1 take him carefully off, and away he 

 shoots. But I must try that place again. Another bite. 

 What have I now? You do not splatter or kick much. I 

 have you. you nasty redfin, and he drops into the water. No 

 more for some time, and I have to pick my way over rocks 

 and fallen trees until I come to a place where the stream 

 makes a plunge of about six feet and then rests for a 



moment in a long pool about twenty feet wide. Ah, here is 

 a place I say to myself. I will have one here. I will stand 

 above it behind that arch and let my line float down. I do 

 so, saying to myself, if I should get a lanre one on how will 

 1 manage to draw him out? No need of saying it. 1 try a fly 

 with the same result. I let the fly sink. No use. 



There is a large rock at the lower end of this pool that 

 turns the stream to the left in its course, and I see there is 

 an opening at the side of the pond that will allow me to 

 cast my line there. I make for it, and after tumbling over 

 aJog and scratching my face I am by the stream again, and 

 the perspiration is running, it seems to me, from my head 

 to my boots. But I make a cast with bait again. And 

 good! I have a fish. I am dreadfu !ly afraid I cannot get 

 him in. I will pull my basket around in front of me and 

 open it and take him off. I cannot afford to lose a fish, 

 and this left hand is so weak. 1 do so and he is safe. This 

 one was eight inches. I try again, casting up and down. 

 No more. Now the stream is running by a high bank, and 

 there are a succession of deep holes, and a little meadow on 

 one side. That looks like a nice place to fish, and I am not 

 far from the river, I guess. Try a grasshopper here. This 

 seems to be a good hole, and you can screen yourself well 

 behind those low alders. I am ready. Swing your hook 

 out if you can. I have one. Come out here — seven inches. 

 Try again. Hah! that is a trout, but he is a small one. I 

 have him, though. He has to go back; he doesn't come up 

 to the measure. I try another hole, and no luck, and 

 another, with the same result. Now I am coming to a place 

 where the water glides over a shelving rock into a great pool. 

 Go carefully now, and see to your bait. I do so, and here 

 comes another fish. I am too much interested in securing 

 him to notice that kingfisher that has passed so near me and 

 that humming bird that has darted at my head. I have not 

 time to think that he may have a nest on one of the limbs of 

 that beech tree opposite. No, no time for birds now. This 

 is a nice fish, and I must see if I cannot get another. 1 hear 

 the Housatonic as it madly rushes down over the rocks at 

 my right. But there is no more fish in this pool. Now I 

 am to cross the road and try under the foundation of that 

 old bridge. That is the last place. Try a fly there. Now 

 try and make a good cast. I do so; and, glad again, I have 

 a seven-inch one. See if you cannot get another on that 

 red hackle. Let it sink a little, like a drowned miller. Ah, 

 I have another, have I? and a good one. My, you make 

 my rod bend. But are you tired out so soon? Then you 

 may come in here. You worked too hard at first. But I 

 never saw a trout act so strangely. Oh, you disgusting 

 thing; you are a pumpkin seed — a sunfish — and never in 

 my life'before did I fish for trout and catch one of your 

 kind. 



It is after 12 now and I return home. I have fished about 

 a mile and a half of stream, and have now to walk almost 

 that distance to the Maple Grove House. I do not let every 

 one see what is in my basket. But Mrs. Stillaboy and my- 

 self have a small dish of trout set before us at tea time that 

 we distribute around to our particular friends, while 1 take 

 care that Mrs. S. has a nice one for herself. Sam and his 

 mother regard me as quite a fisherman, and tell me that I 

 must try the stream the other way. That really the beet 

 fishing is above their house. I promised them that I would 

 do so the first good day we have. 



The week after my excursion down "Skinned Stream" 

 there came another good day for fishing, and as I had not 

 fallen in the brook, nor hurt myself, nor taken cold, as Mrs. 

 Stillaboy predicted, she made no objections to my going out 

 again, This time i was to go up the stream, and had to slip 

 away from the house before the boys were around. The 

 fact of it is, I was watched. Several of them wanted to go 

 with me. Now, don't think that 1 am not fond of boys. I 

 am fond of them generally. But any man who has ever 

 fished where trout were scarce knows what it is to have in- 

 experienced lads talking to him all the time, or stamping 

 around the bank of the creek. 



I had to get up pretty early and take breakfast with the 

 proprietor. He said he knew I would get some fish, and 

 Sam seemed to think that I would get more than I did the 

 first time. My directions were to take the road we had 

 driven recently to a bridge near an old cider mill. Sam 

 thought about a mile and a half away. This he said would 

 be all that I could fish before dinner, and take me over some 

 of the best ground. He remembered when it was good, he 

 said, before the Litchfield boys and Boston fellows found it 

 out. Among the things that the proprietor advised was to 

 cany a rubber coat — if I had one, and ifj got lost to inquire 

 for Maple Grove House. 



I had a coat with me, a thin one, not fit for the woods, 

 but Sam said I would not meet with any tall trees, although 

 I might expect to find some thickets of alders along tiie edge 

 of the stream. I hoped this, for I knew that my chances 

 would be slim indeed if I had to fish in open meadows at 

 this season of the year. So the coat was put in the basket, 

 and my readers will see what use I had for it before I got 

 home. 



The place described was found, and about 8 o'clock I com- 

 menced fishing. The stream was very full and where I 

 began was deep and narrow, as it came through a meadow 

 that had once been a bog. I should think the brook here 

 was about half the width that it was below. Here it was 

 not more than four feet wide, there it was six and eight. 

 Two of its smaller branches came in bek>w, and these, too, 

 were streams for trout. But now the success. Not a bite 

 nor a rise, nor, as I occasionally went to the bank and 

 looked into the clear, cold water, could I see a fish of any 

 kind. There did not seem to be even a minnow here. But 

 I worked, starting up a flock of meadow larks as I got over 

 the fence and nearly breaking the tip of my rod as I caught 

 the line on a stake. There were alders below me, and be- 

 fore you came to the alders quite a steep bank. A tree grew 

 opposite the bank on my side, where the ground was low and 

 the water ran rapidly down a gravel incline before it comes 

 to this place. 1 could not see distinctly from where I stood ; 

 hut I said 1 must try there. That tree is a good shade for 

 the pool that is beneath it, and that rippling stream coming 

 in, if I know anything about fish, is just the spot; so I reel off 

 some thirty or forty yards of line. TJnen I get close by the 

 side of the stream, bending down as low as I could, so that 

 my head should not appear above the grass on the margin. 

 cast just above the pool so that the water would cany my 

 hook into it. It is in now and t-r-r-r-r sings my reel, while [ 

 see my line going toward the bank. It is a trout, I say to 

 myself. Check the reel. What were you thinking about 

 that you did not keep your finger on it? He is not even 

 hooked. But now he is, and he don't like it at all. Reel 

 up. He makes considerably flapping as he comes. But he 

 is in— an eight-inch fish. I have not gone near the pool and 

 hope to get another one. No such good luck. However. I 



solace myself with the reflection that I have at least one fish 

 and will most likely get a few more. 



Now I come to another deep hole just above the alders 

 Hope leads me to think I will get another here. No; no 

 signs of a fish neither small nor large. But see; see that 

 snake four feet long at least uncoiling himself from thaf 

 bush and gliding into the water. I wish you were where 1 

 could kill you. But my, I have not gone thirty yards from 

 this place, peeking into the alders as I go along to see if 

 the water is deep or there are anv holes before Tsee, in a 

 little opening just in front of me", half the body of a huge 



had neither been cut nor fed down. It comes up to ruv 

 waist and higher. But before I go through this grass let me 

 peer into the stream again where the fence crosses it. There 

 is a chance here to throw my line. The water I see is deep 

 on my side of the fence, but shallow on the other and it is 

 filled with sticks and roots. This is a place 1 say to myself 

 for trout to hide and live, if the snakes do not eat them up, 

 There is one place in the stream there where men cannot 

 get at them at least, and that is among these thick alders. 

 But I am going to try this hole. After some maneuvering I 

 get my line in near the fence. Something is on. Pull up. 

 It is another trout, the least trifle over six inches. I try 

 again with no success. And now I shall have to pass for 

 some distance down the stream and through that tall grass. 

 The alders on each side, of the stream seem to overlap each 

 other here, forming a complete tangle. I never saw just 

 such a condition of things before. The tops of those on' the 

 opposite side of the creek are on this side and vice versa. 

 I say to myself there is no wading that stream. 



I am in the meadow now, working my way down by the 

 side of the alders; and all the time I am thinking of snakes. 

 I say to myself I wish I had not seen them, while I know 

 they will be careful enough to get out of my way. But then 

 suppose one should wind around my leg, as that one did one 

 day when 1 jumped upon his tail. And these bogheads will 

 upset me directly, for I cannot see them. There, I am over. 

 I hope there are no snakes here. Why did I not let one of 

 the boys come? But I am up again. When will 1 get th rough 

 this bog? I never in all my life met anything to equal this. 

 I am nearly wet through with perspiration, and it is going 

 to rain directly. Well I was a fool. Think of me leaving 

 a quiet home to come here; and if anything should happen 

 who would ever think of looking for me in this place? And 

 now I am down again, anil my nose peels the bark off of an 

 alder bush; and the nose is peeled a little too, 1 guess. But 

 don't give up, Stillaboy. Only the next time you go fishing 

 know where you are going. But there is a fence, and an 

 opening on the other side. Yes, keep up your courage. You 

 were not wise, especially to come alone; but; it is a good 

 thing you led no one but yourself into this scrape. What 

 an old bridge! And an old road by the side of the fence. 

 Why, how nice. I must try again under the bridge. Yes, 

 1 have one seven inches. Oh, I guess I shall get some yet, 

 and I feel better now. 



And here I am in a meadow that is pastured and the walk- 

 ing is better. The stream still runs through alder bushes, 

 and there are no openings nor chances to get to the water on 

 this side except those we have tried. For nearly half a mile 

 this has been the case, and the waters have been sluggish 

 and spread out to a width of ten feet or more. But a current 

 is very perceptible in them, and it is evident that years affo 

 this stream was much larger than it is now, and for this 

 whole longth that I have found it so difficult to travel was 

 once deep and still. I should judge from some of the alders 

 and the way the bark is peeled from them, and the grass and 

 sticks along the bank, that there must be considerable ice 

 passing down here at times, and that the bogs are overflowed 

 in spring and fall. 



But now the current is swifter, and I see coming a rocky 

 section. I hear a rumbling below me too that sounds as 

 though there might be a fall there. I have not seen the sign 

 of a woodcock boring, nor have I noticed any birds but field 

 sparrows and goldfinches since the larks flew up. However, 

 I am after fish now, and here is another chance to reach the 

 stream. I got over another fence, and just below it is a 

 large rock in the center of the stream with the water foam- 

 ing around it. It looks like a good place, and I Approach 

 with extreme caution. I cast just over the rock, and in a 

 moment my hook is taken. But alas, he is a little fellow and 

 does not come up to the measure, and consequently is thrown 

 back. I try again with fly and grasshopper. No success. 

 Now I am walking by the edge of a g' od grass field, and 

 the noise of a waterfall is increasing, when all of a sudden 

 my foot goes down and I tumble headlong. I have stepped 

 into a little stream that comes trickling through the tall grass 

 that conceals it, and enters the brook close to my left, beside 

 those brier bushes. I must try there. Surely a trout will 

 be lying in that cold water. No. As 1 turn around I see 

 the little stream some five hundred yards away, tumbling 

 down from the uplands over a ledge of rocks some thirty 

 feet high. It seems to fall that distnee in three little cas- 

 cades, and is a gem of scenery from where I stand. I say to 

 myself I will go to it. There may be a pool above the fall. 

 I do go, aod after climbing the rocks and trying the little 

 pools, look for some distance up the almost dry bed of what 

 was once a mountain torrent, that is arched over with alder 

 bushes as perfectly as though they had been planted there. 

 But as I return to Skinned Stream again, 1 say there may be 

 a trout in the meadow where this little brook runs through 

 the grass. I have known very nice trout to seek such places 

 at this season of the year. Nor was I mistaken, except as to 

 the sort of trout. 



The moment I cast my line where the stream ran under 

 the fence, I had a fisk about five inches long. He had 

 gorged the bait, and as I unhooked him his gills were 

 injured, so I had to kill the little fellow and put him m my 

 basket. I try again, and again the same thiug happens, 

 only this time the fish is uninjured. Again and I have a 

 little fish. I am determine to get over the fence where the 

 grass is tall and see if I cannot find out what is under that 

 fence rail. I approach very carefully and part the grass 

 with the butt of my rod and look down, and there, in a hole 

 about three feet deep and two feet wide, I see a half dozen 

 or more little trout. As the grass is parted they hurry and 

 skuny from side to side. I wait until tbey all get settled 

 and straightened out, so that I can have a good look at them 

 through my peep hole and then go on. saying to myself some 

 of these days the creek skinners will find you out and catch 

 you all. As I follow the little rill down I find an opening 

 in the tall grass, and I drop my hook in, and again I have a 

 little trout. This is one. of the supply brooks uo doubt to 

 Skinned Stream and perhaps is so small that no one suspects 

 that there are any fish in it. 



