IBO 
And there amid the wild anarchy of nature, with the 
note of the wood-robin, the pipe and thrill of the sweet 
whistler, the luscious gurgle of hidden rills, and the flash 
and music of merry cascades, and under a sky fretted with 
golden tints, I stood up in the brave old boat eager to re- 
cite the remainder of Eugene Field's masterpiece, with all 
the tender eloquence I could summon, but without the 
paraphrase. All eyes were now intent upon me, and even 
a golden- winged butterfly fluttering over a wild flower 
and a red-wing swaying on a bulrush also gave me close 
attention, as if they could realize from its rhythmic rap- 
ture. 
"Go on," again cried Ned in over-anxiety, and then on 
catching the spirit of the lovely gem I let my voice in 
modulated tones ring out on the whispering breeze that 
stirred the streamlet's ripples as I recited that: 
"The old moon laughed and sang a song 
As they rocked in the wooden shoe, 
And the wind that sped them all night long 
Ruffled the waves of dew. 
The little stars were the herring fish 
That lived in that beautif ul sea. 
'Now cast your nets wherever you wish, 
But never af eared are we — ' 
So cried the stars to the fishermen three, 
Wynken, 
BlynUen 
And Nod. 
"All night long their nets they threw 
For the fish in the twinkling foam. 
Then down from the alcy came the wooden shoe 
Bringing the fishermen home. 
■•Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed 
As if it could not be, 
And some folks thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed 
Of sailing that beautiful sea. 
But I shall name you the fishermen three: 
Wynken, 
Blynken 
And Nod. 
"Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, 
And Nod is a little head, 
And the wooden shoe that sailed the sklea 
Is a wee one's trundle-bed; 
Bo shut your eyes while mother sings 
Of the wonderful sights that be, 
And you shall see the beautiful things 
As you rock in the misty sea 
W^jere the old shoe rocked the fishermen three — 
Wynken, 
Blynken 
And Nod." 
r The trout having all been chased away from the shady 
pool as stated, we concluded to ascend the stream to its 
first ripple, and then Kenosh and I as per agreement were 
to make a detour through the forest to the upper waters, 
while Ned and Jo w aited in the boat or returned to fish 
the pool again after it had sufficiently rested. 
I thoughc before we started that there was a footpath 
leading 10 the pools, and that it would be a delightful 
walk through the umbrageous forest, but it proved a dis- 
appointment, for Kenosh either lost his way or no path 
existed. We went through the worst tangle imaginable 
and over steep hills that were fatiguing to climb, and that 
had much fallen timber which was provocative of em- 
phatic Saxon. At last we struck the stream and found it 
but little better than a mountain rill, shrunken yet more 
after the snow had disappeared, but it made up in beauty 
what it lacked in strength. It is never for a moment at 
rest, as it moves in white foam at every turn over fallen 
logs or imder moss-grown banks, or over boulders that 
toss its spray to the four winds and yet fail to arrest its 
course. It is the busiest of rivulets. When it comes to 
the point of a plunge through the openings between ledges 
it is aroused to its utmost passion, and reminds one of 
Southey's description of how the waters come down from 
the Lodore. 
As we came for trout and not poetic reverie, we began 
the search; but not one did we raise to the surface or see 
gleaming in the httle rippling shallows. We were both 
disgusted with the venture and moved a speedy adjourn- 
ment to the boat. Kenosh recommended returning by 
the stream, which would result in some wading, but pre- 
ferring it to the arduous tramp over the hill and down 
dale, 1 ordered the advance. It was fully a mile, and 
very rough and damp walking; but we realized much in 
the beautiful from the rolling clouds, impending rocks, 
verdant woods, gentle rills, rushing torrents, and the 
warbles of birds that lined the banks of the wandering 
and tinkling brook. 
On reaching the boat I was completely worn out, but 
not so much so as to prevent me from catching the 
odd trout as we passed our favorite pool, and which 
gave me the majority of the spoils. I was aggravating 
enough to remind Ned of it and advised him to retire his 
"dusting brush" of the flaming hue. 
He said it was simply a case of infringement, and de- 
clared it the ruination of inventive genius. I was not for 
argument on the question, and, being victor, allowed him 
all the privileges of accounting for his defeat. It was the 
fly maker's day, and, say what he would, he had to grin 
and endure it. 
With my capture of the gamy trout we started for 
camp, and were well pleased to reach it and the grateful 
shade.^ 
The^f ternoon found us in the bay, and the result was 
the capture of four more fins trout. We had worked in- 
cessantly with the flies during the day, and after adding 
thereto my tramp for trout in the morning, I assure you 
I sought my bed quite early that night, without any at- 
tempt to divert the camp. 
The morning disclosed a southeast wind and patches of 
fog coming and going. A while we would be covered 
with mist, and then again there would be a mingling of 
half-exhausted rain clouds and rolling piles of cumuli 
near the sun, with their deep, though transparent, colors, 
their wild dashes of gorgeous tertiaries, and jagged 
breaks of flaming orange and crinkling gold showed me 
from what studies Rubens colored the "Judgment of 
Paris" and the "Plague of the Fiery Serpents." The 
most beautiful in the breaks of fog came a little later, 
when the sun had withdrawn his fire from a large mass 
of the lower clouds, which, now being purified, gathered 
into towering form of priestly vapor, unsulled white. 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
rising high above the murkin^ss and splendid impurity 
around the tender golden blue of the upper sky. The 
most striking peculiarity about it, however, was the 
seemingly perfect whiteness of the great mass in shade, 
while the narrow edging of sunshine appeared white 
again in flame. Such a skyscape frequently reveals itself 
in such weather, and language is found inadequate to de- 
scribe its matchless beauty. 
We did nothing in a piscatorial way in the morning, 
but when the afternoon came, with the sky in rosy radi- 
ance, we went to Sand River, some six miles below, for 
a frolic with the adolescents of "mottled sides and shapely 
mould." 
We went along a serrated shore, diversified with thick- 
ets of blooming bushes, low-crowned and retiring walls, 
infinitely varied in form and sculpture, and fringed with 
ferns and other plants that find anchorage in the narrow 
ledges and fissures, the result of the warring elements of 
bygone ages, 
A ribbon-like rivulet that comes dancing and foaming 
over the radiant bows of ragged rocks we found in a little 
bay hidden among the splintered and recessed rocks, and 
here we stop and make a cast or two; but nothing comes 
to the surface, although among the old anglers of this 
shore it has a reputation of being generously populated 
with the iridescent beauties. What has been here is of 
the past, for the lovely little retreat, fit abode for a Naiad, 
pays no tinted dividends now. This is our second visita- 
tion to this concealed brook, and but one baby trout is all 
we ever captured here. 
No further stop is now made till we reach Sand River 
and draw our boat up on the bright sandy beach at its 
mouth. From here we all start for an advance up the 
river. Ned and Jo preferred the shores near the mouth 
and where the rocks form a sort of barricade, among and 
around which the current with foamy ripples seeks the 
sea. 
Kenosh and I take to the rocky parapets and pools 
above, and consequently have the fatiguing work and 
catch lees trout, as it is evident at every toilsome step 
we take that we are the late comers to the picturesque 
river. 
Kenosh with the agility of a cat goes climbing over the 
misshapen and declivitous rocks, and through the thick 
bushes that line the bank, leaving me to follow at will. I 
finally tire of the painful work, and seating myself upon 
a commanding parapet above the racing and foaming 
river, drink in the surrounding landscape, a picture of 
perfect loveliness rendered lovelier by the bright beams 
of the refulgent sun. As I gazed below at the frolicking 
river, waking with its sea-like voice fairy echoes in the 
forest, I was deeply impressed with what Henry Van 
Dyke says of a river in his preface to "Little Rivers," 
and, by the way, a most admirable work. It is so charm- 
ing, so apropos for the occasion, that I heartily join him 
in saying that "A river is the most human and compan- 
ionable of all inanimate things. It has a life, a charac- 
it r, a voice of its own, and is as full of good fellowship as 
a sugar maple is of sap. It can talk in varied tones, loud 
or low, and of many subjects grave or gay. Under favor- 
able circumstances it will even make a shift to sing, not 
in a fashion that can be reduced to notes and set down in 
black and white on a sheet of paper, but in a vague and 
refreshing manner and to a wandering air that goes 
'Over the hills and far away.' 
"For real company and friendship there is nothing out- 
side of the animal kingdom that is comparable to a 
river. 
"It is by a river that I would choose to make love, and 
to revive old friendships, and to play with the children, 
and to confess my faults and escape from vain, selfish de- 
sires, and to cleanse my mind from all the false and fool- 
ish things that mar the joy and peace of living. Like 
David's hart, I pant for the water brooks, and would fol- 
low the advice of Seneca, who says, 'Where a spring 
rises, or a river flows, there should we build altars and 
offer sacrifices.' " 
Too well do I know the beauties and. charms of rivers 
to not feelingly indorse every line above. It is there I 
have found the enduring love of the angle, it is there 1 
have drank of the most enrapturing scenery, it is there 
with frosted locks that I have renewed the vigor of life, 
it is there with my three score and ten that I now look 
for anticipated sport, and therefore I say, to slightly 
paraphrase Longfellow, "The river! the river! a blessing 
on the river." 
Having rested sufficiently and not captured a single 
trophy, I once more tramp along over the sun-touched 
rocks that gleamed like burnished steel. Dwarf pines and 
hemlocks and birch crowd the shore line, and frequently 
a detour from the river is made necessary as I advance. 
I finally strike a lovely pool that is almost cut off from the 
river, aud which sleeps in a granite basin overhung by 
bending bushes and sensitive ferns, as if it were the abode 
of some lovely sea nymph. Passing down an opposing 
sea wall of flmt, I reach a position on a shelving rock 
commanding the entire limit of the pool. From here I 
send out my tiny flies and at last succeed in landing a 
baby trout that made me blush at its immature size. I 
was about to return it to its element when it struck me 
that it was a dish of the innocents we came for. That 
thought sealed the fate of the little cherub of the rosy 
cheeks and so the greed of man had a black mark to his 
discredit. There is nothing like it for a pair, or for trip- 
lets, as they say in the great American game, and so my 
flies rained once more o'er that translucent pool, 
where the eddies, so pearly white, 
Sink away into gloom or wheel into light." 
Drop and dance, drag and skitter, with the gnat-like 
fli:es till the arm grows weary and then a disgusted angler 
reels up, turns and faces the rocks, and then ascends the 
bold and ragged route till he clutches at the roots of some 
scarlet maple and mounts to the upper terrace that looks 
upon the flowing river. 
We care not for fish, such tiny fish, I mean; and with 
the little trophy stowed away in my back pocket I saun- 
ter back to the boat, drinking in the rapturous beauties 
of the flower-enameled river, the fragrance of the air, 
the lovely banks of pearly clouds and the towering and 
rugged mountains that hem in with their foothills the 
rushing currents that have worn their way through 
these scarred and gray rQcks that face you at every step. 
I felt as I idled along like a royal vagabond of nature's 
realms, who would ever live with the blue canopy above 
for his covering, the soft tufts of grass for his couch, tha 
(Avq. 22 1896. 
whispering forests, warbling birds and wandering streams 
for his companions. 
How satisfying, how delightful, all this was; but when 
the romance of wood and river began to fade as I neared 
the lake and my companions, I felt that I- was leaving 
behind me my very, very dearest friends. Like Jeffries, 
I ever wanted the things I was parting from — the wild 
flowers, the yellow hummer and the tinkling brooks. 
After a toilsome tramp through tangled bushes and 
over dismembered rocks I reach the lake and my associ- 
ates, among whom was Kenosh, who had passed m& 
while I was holding gentle converse with nature. 
"What luck?" says Ned, as I approached him. 
"A small piece of rainbow," I answered, and then tak- 
ing the tiny trout from my pocket tossed it on the shin- 
ing sands at his feet. 
"Is that aU you caught?" 
"No, I caught a heartful of inspiration and a deeper 
shade of bronze on my farrowed face," 
"You must have been napping or idling to return with- 
but a single trout." 
"How often have I told you that I cared nothing for 
this baby trouting." 
"What we do with the trout?" now inquired Kenosh, 
looking at the pretty babe with a sort of pleasurable con- 
tempt. 
Ned picked it up, and taking in its diminutive dimen- 
sions as he critically eyed it, said, with a smile stealing 
from his lips, "Boys, it is the smallest of the lot of sixteen, 
and I guess we had better keep it to grease the frying pan 
or hang it up in camp as a sample of what a gilt-edge fly- 
tosser can do in river trouting when he is in deep 
earnest." 
"Rather say when he prefers a grand talk with nature 
in preference to robbing a stream of its ruby-tinted inno- 
cents." 
With this the playful talk ended and an embarkation 
ensued which sent us flying over the rippling lake, with 
the mainsail catching the evening breeze, which was rap- 
idly on the increase. 
We had a pleasant sail of the six miles to camp, with 
the red light of a descending sun shimmering on the sob- 
bing water and giving it a half tone of somberness, while 
a gleaming background up among the mountain peaks 
that caught the fullness of the sun shone like smooth and 
gleaming gold. The night was advancing with flying 
footsteps, shadows creep out from rocky ramparts, and 
the myriad air spray of the wind struck the dense woods 
on the shore and whistled through them as if arousing the 
nocturnal wanderers of wing and of foot for their night 
forays. 
Reaching our quarters, the boatmen soon serve a meal, 
and after a rousing flre, for the nights here are always 
cool, came the story, the song and general pow-wow of 
matters miscellaneous. 
Just before retiring Kenosh showed signs of mental dis- 
turbance, and at last relieved himself of the strain by inquir- 
i ag if we would not tell a hunting story before seeking 
O'lr blankets. 
"You want bear, or snake story, or a fairy romance?" 1 
asked the uneasy half-breed. 
"Anything but bear." 
"Well, then, what do you say for a deer story ?" 
"Ail right, he do." 
"Any reservation about it?" asks Ned with a significant 
smile as he looked at Kenosh, thinking doubtless of the 
fox and geese story where the half-breed fell into a trap. 
"Not a bit. It is an all-round, open-faced and remark- 
able adventure." 
"Let her off then." 
"Well, here goes. A friend of mine a few years ago, 
who was out hunting m the upper peninsula of Michigan 
with an old-time partner, was going down a steep hill 
when tracking a bear, saw a deer get up from behind a 
log and lazily stretch himself. He immediately fired, 
and when the smoke^ cleared away there, much to his 
amazement, stood the deer. Having a double-barreled 
gun, he pulled up and fired again, as before; when the 
smoke had wafted away there stood the deer, innocently 
gazing around. By this time his friend was near and 
asked what he was shooting at. He beckoned him to ap- 
proach, and, pointing to the shapely animal, told him 
that he had shot twice and the deer never moved, and 
that he should try his luck. The second man shot and 
the deer dropped. Then the two went down to see their 
game, and what was their surprise on arriving at the spot 
to find, instead of one animal, three fine deer. It seemed 
that they had been sleeping there, and as the first one 
was shot down, another got up, and so on until the three 
were killed." 
Kenosh gave a long and loud whistle when I had ended 
and then looking intently at me said: 
"He go with the three burnt bears." 
"Don't you believe it?" 
"Too much shoot, too much deer," 
"Well, Kenosh, you asked for a story and you got it." 
"It all story. You tell fish talk at home that way?" 
"Worse than that, Kenosh," says Ned with a laugh. 
"Oh, you both big chief in talk. Half-breed fool some- 
time, not all the time." 
"Then you think I romance?" 
"What is a romance?" 
"An exaggeration, or, to be more distinct, a flat-footed 
lie." 
"You stretchee that way some." 
"All right, Kenosh, no more stories from me then." 
"Then we have no — what you call 'ems?" 
"Romance." 
"Yes, that it; no more romance." 
"Well, goodnight." 
"Good night." 
Then pale face and bronze face arose and sought their 
respective tents and soon w ere in sound slumber, oblivious 
to all triple slaughter of bear and deer by fire and shot. 
Alex, Staebtjck. 
[TO^^BEiCONTINUED.] 
Lake Crescent Trout. 
O. O. S. SENDS US this note from a Washington (State) 
paper: "Mrs. George E, Mitchell, of Lake Crescent, has 
landed a 161b, trout this summer, thus breaking Admiral 
Beardslee's record of last year with his llilb. trout. The 
season is young yet, and the Philadelphia is now at Port 
Angeles, and if there is a trout in that matchless lake 
bigger than 16 to 1, Admiral Beardslee intends getting it 
on his own hook." 
