FOREST AND STREAM: 
[July ir, i0o3. 
Feeling Pleasant Under Difficulties. 
"Oh, yaiz! oh, yaiz, oh, yaizl Kape shtill every 
mother's son of yez, the Coort is upon the Binch." I give 
it as I once heard it in a Tammany Court in New York, 
and do not undertake to translate into English the call 
as given out a few moments ago by a Scandinavian 
descendant of Eric the Red. 
And here I am in court through and by virtue of a small 
piece of paper known as a jury summons. The clerk has 
repeatedly dipped his hand into the wheel of fortune,_but 
so far my name has slipped through his fingers. The jury 
is made up and i sit and await my fate, called, but not yet 
chosen. I do not feel pleasant. My desk is covered with 
papers demanding attention, and if this thing lasts for a 
week or two I must turn day into night. But what's the 
use ! I find a paper in my pocket and a lead pencil. I ap- 
propriate a chair in a sunny corner of the courtroom by 
an open window, and, using my straw hat and knees for 
a desk, I try to write myself into green fields, on rippling 
waters, and among sweet smelling pines. 
I imagine myself up in Maine at the Carry Ponds. It 
is my first trip into the Maine woods, and twenty years 
ago. As we walk along the trail toward Chester's camp 
1 notice the absence of bird life and music. The flitting of 
a red-headed woodpecker across our path, to disappear ni 
the shadow of the trees, attracts our attention. The dis- 
cordant cry of the jay is a relief to our ears heretofore 
drinking in the stillness. The chattering cry of the trout- 
thief faintly heard in the distance, accompanied by the 
weird laugh of the loon, warns us that the lake is not far 
off. Not many more minutes of tramping brings us to an 
opening in the woods and ahead of us we see the silvery 
expanse of the first Carry Pond. 
And here is the camp and there is the lake! There is 
a smell of balsam boughs about the camp that pervades 
and subdues all other woodland odors and yet, above it all, 
from the nearby kitchen, comes a smell of frying salt pork 
and trout, as Chester, be-aproned and bare-armed, deftly 
turns them in the pan lest they brown too much. 
Between the rapidly boiling coffee, the baking biscuit 
and beans and frying trout, Chester's hands are full, but 
he has time to ask. us if we will not try the trout with fly 
and rod after we try them with knife and fork. 
The wind is balmy and the ripple on the water is of 
the right kind to bring the trout to the surface and hide 
what is going on with rod and line between water and 
sky. And before the dinner-horn is blown we find time 
to get out our impedimenta and prepare for the evening's 
sport. We need no second blowing of Gabriel's horn, 
and take our seats around a trout and bean and biscuit 
laden table as only a good camp cook can spread. 
Why go into a comparison between Fulton-Market- 
cooked trout and those that were piled up like cordwood 
on a large tin platter in front of us ! 
There is a commotion in the court. My corner is re- 
mote from both bench and attorney's table, and only now 
and then, when the legal battle has raged fiercely, have 
I heard the stereotyped, "I object! Immaterial, irrelevant, 
and not in accordance with the pleadings in the case," 
tailed on to it from the bench "Objection sustained," or 
"overruled," as the case might be. 
In fact, I have been lost in the woods, and have,_ with 
my pencil, cleared the atmosphere and have been oblivious 
to all immediate surroundings. 
The jury in the previous case has been dismissed. They 
are calling a new one. My name is called and I must 
now forget all about pleasanter ways and waters and con- 
centrate my mind upon the troubles of this world, for the 
time being, condensed in the persons of the plaintiff and 
defendant. I stuff my papers in my pocket, and, hat in 
hand, take my seat. 
- ♦ ♦ * * * * 
A ten minutes recess has been ordered by the judge to 
, enable the plaintiff, a Swede farmer, who is pleading his 
own case, and who most certainly "has a fool for a client," 
' to gather in, by endosmosis or induction, a few points on 
court procedure. 
It is a "horse case" — not of the David Harum type, un- 
. fortunately — but a case where a slick Swede farmer 
evolves a plan to break in a pair of $25 broncos by loan- 
ing them to a milkman, and the excitement of the streets 
of the village of Minneapolis being too strenuous, one of 
the horses dies and the other founders. This breaking-in 
process must have been a valuable one, for the dead 
bronco and the foundered one became each worth, for law- 
suit purposes, $200. The jury was on the verge of 
hysterics. Ole, once farmer now turned lawyer, was not 
one to accept a pig in a poke as far as the jury was con- 
cerned. He started in to find out a thing or two : Did 
the jury know the defendants? Were they acquainted 
with any customers of the defendants? Did the jury 
know any of their relations? Did the jury know anybody 
in Minneapolis? And the jury individuall}'- and collective- 
ly replied to Ole as best it could, and was accepted. 
Then Ole opened his case by summing it up and de- 
manding justice of the jury until the court called him to 
order. Then, as his own witness, Ole took the stand, and 
on a question of some horse medicine the jury, from Ole's 
testimony, was in a maze as to Avhether the defendants 
took the aconite and belladonna or whether it was given 
to the horse. As the horse died, and not the defendants, 
it was presumed that the horse got it. The jury and 
^ audience were in an uproar and at the close of Ole's testi- 
mony the court ordered this recess, and Ole is hunting for 
a lawyer to plead his case. He has dug up one from 
somewhere, the judge is back in court, the jury are 
meandering back into the box, so this tale of the Carry 
Ponds must come to an inglorious close, and instead of 
enjoying those trout and my evening's fishing all over 
again, I must listen and decide between fact and fiction. 
* * * ^ * :js 
The case is heard and decided. Ole and his friends 
told their stories, truly or falsely, under oath, and we have 
endured the harangue of counsel, who have made up in 
sound what they lacked in sense. 
As foreman of the jury it was my sad duty to find with 
the others against Ole, and here I am waiting again the 
pleasure of the judge with more time hanging heavily on 
iny hands. 
* * * * * * 
Well, Chester's trout disposed of and our pipes lighted, 
Chester left the care of the camp to his understudy, and 
as the sun was fast descending toward the horizon and 
sending long shadows upon the glassy surface of the lake, 
we were well on our way for the sunken and trout- 
haunted rock. 
The lake reflected the clouds in the heavens above which 
blended with the pines and maples shadowed upon the 
surface of the water along the edge of the lake. 
Presently a faint breeze sprang up, rippling thi surface 
of the water. We are within sight of the sunken rock 
and see its black and slippery surface below the water 
Ime. We look to our flies and rods, and as Chester brings 
the boat broadside to the rock we make a cast. A splash, 
a strike, and with several quick, staccato screeches of the 
reel the line runs out as the trout makes for the bottom. 
The fish does not work in straight or zigzag lines, but as 
it descends keeps the line cutting through the water in a 
circle, much like the circular saw proceedings that a sun- 
fish will carry on after he has taken a fly. After experi- 
menting and failing to raise the trout from the bottom, 
Chester volunteers the statement that I have struck either 
a large sunfish or hooked the trout foully, and time proves 
the latter to be correct. My trout was hooked in the belly. 
The trout are feeding well. The sun has now sunk be- 
In'nd the trees and the moon is lighting up the water with 
its uncertain light. We have fished deliberately and 
slowly, and have hurried no trout after he was hooked. 
We continue casting by the light of the moon, and the 
trout j'et take the fly. We enjoy the evening and the 
uncertainty of the casts. We strike by intuition and fail 
frequently to set the hook. We do not always land the 
fish after they have been hooked. There comes a lull. 
The trout will rise no more to-night. 
W"e turn slowly toward camp and drink in the scenery 
around us. The dancing of the moonbeams upon the 
restless surface of the lake and the deep enciixling 
shadows on the shores, the shining stars overhead, and 
the stillness of the night broken only by the splash ! 
splash I splash I of fie resisting water against the bow of 
the boat, are enjoyecf in their fullness by us. 
The lantern of the camp comes into sight as we round 
the point, and it is but a moment before we are stretched 
upon the balsam boughs, wrapped in our blaiikets and 
dreaming only such dreams as St. Peter, the fisher of men, 
sends to a contented fisherman. 
****** 
And yet no sign comes from the judge that we are ex- 
cused for the day. From the other side of the room I 
catch the long and weary cross examination of an unwill- 
ing and rebellious witness. I smell the balsam boughs and 
yet listen to the hum of life going on in the streets below. 
T find myself nodding and I resist the advances of Mor- 
pheus, for, while I have never heard myself snore, yet 
from abundant evidence and a sore spot or two (such as 
a sharp, feminine elbow might produce) in my ribs, I 
have reason to believe that I do snore when I sleep, and 
because of that I keep awake. I would fain now sleep 
were I sure I would not snore. So, like the Wandering 
Jew, I must hie on — with my story. 
****** 
" It was at Carrytunk up near the forks of the Kenne- 
bec. Pleasant Pond, remarkable for its depth and crys- 
talline clearness, lies like a sheet of burnished copper 
under the afternoon sun in front of us. 
We row out upon its surface. Not a breath of air dis- 
turbs the absolute calm upon the water. We look over the 
side of the boat down into the depths, and, as clearly as if 
atmosphere alone separated us, we see sunken trees and 
submerged rocks far down upon the white and sandy bot- 
tom. It is not a great stretch of ocular imagination to 
see the springs bubbling up through the lake bottom. The 
sensation when looking down into the water is one of 
aerial suspension. _ The water upon which our boat rests 
and floats is invisible because of its extreme purity. 
The oarsman informs us that trout are taken from the 
lake under three conditions only : At sunrise and sunset, 
if the lake surface be rippled, and by still fishing at cer- 
tain very deep points of the lake, which spots, however, 
are kept baited to attract the fish. 
Fortune favors us. As the sun's angle increases in 
obtuseness, the maples and birches along the shore begin 
to nod and whisper, and millions of ripples now dance 
upon the lake, and presently the trout begin to leap, their 
silvery sides, glistening with the crystal water of the lake, 
give out reflections as would a sunburst upon the bosom 
of a bediamonded stage beauty. The trout were confined 
to no one spot in the lake. They were everywhere upon 
its surface. We try our flies and they take them. They 
are nine-inch fish— very gamy — and as light and bright as 
oxidized silver, with spots all but invisible. How we en- 
joyed it! We fish for an hour and count two dozen trout 
laid in orderly rows at our feet. We lay them in line in 
the kitchen at the farmhouse and find on close examina- 
tion that they vary not a hair in length or width of body. 
They look more like young salmon of exactly the same 
age than anything else. Their flesh was pink, more so 
than any trout I have ever seen. We certainly had no 
criticism, to make when they graced a platter at our break- 
fast. 
What a mysterious influence the bottom of a lake or 
stream has upon the color of its fish ! I remember once 
at the Rowe Ponds, fishing a small pond called Brandy 
Pond, because of its color. The bottom was lined with 
forest leaves which tinged the water. The trout we took 
from this lake were colored like the bottom — in fact, they 
were the highest colored trout I ever saw. Their skin and 
spots glowed with color and during their gyrations 
through the water, and so colored were they that their 
motions when on the leader could not readily be fol- 
lowed. And yet it was clearly to be deducted that this 
little pocket of a pond had been stocked by an overflow of 
the main lake, the fish in which were of normal color, 
* * * * * * 
I am called to another court down stairs. I am in the 
jury box, my nam.e being the first called. It is a personal 
injury case. The jury are all in their seats now and I 
have been asked my business by the lawyer of the de- 
fendant. I have replied, "Manufacturer of machinery," 
and for some reason the la\yygr g:sks rtje no more c^ues- 
tions. I don't think he likes my looks, and after he has 
made the rounds he will drop me out of the box. I think 
he imagines I will be prejudiced and "agin" him. I will 
know in a moment or two, perhaps. If I am discharged 
this will end my story. I have found more relief in writ- 
mg this screed than I would have gotten from fuming 
and fretting over my forced presence in the court room. 
The occupation it has given me has certainly been pleas- 
ant, even if my facilities for easy writing have been con- 
si ricted. 
****** 
The jury is still undergoing a quizzing process to test 
their qualifications, It is not only a personal injury case, 
but an ugly one for the defendants — a boy with two arms 
burned to the elbows by electricity. I have made it plain 
to both lawyers that I am a builder of machinery, am a 
stockholder in a wood-working company, and have had 
considerable experience with personal injury cases in 
court, but it would appear, nevertheless, that I am to be 
chosen. Why, I do not know. I presume they think I can 
be fair and impartial. We are not sworn yet, and I am 
writing this in the jury box. After we are sworn and the 
ball opens, I must listen and tAvirl my thumbs and begin 
a mental process of separation between what I think is the 
truth and what is otherivise. The jury is accepted, so— 
****** 
l am wrong. I have been excused from the jury by the 
plaintiff's attorney, and am not to serve on the case. 
Later, I asked the attorney, merely out of curiosity, why 
he excused me. His reply was that he feared I would 
carry every juror over, when in the jury room, to my 
way of thinking. In other words, my verdict would be 
the verdict of the jury. He went on to say that, although 
sjitisfied that I would give an absolutely fair and just ver- 
dict, his client's case was one that demanded considerable 
S3TOpathy when the damages were being made up and he 
feared that I would think more of the evidence and law 
in the case and give less heed to sympathy. And I am 
once more floating on the jury sea, called, but not chosen. 
****** 
Every time there is a recess or lull some disciple of 
Izaak Walton in the room sidles over to where I am sit- 
ting and I hear, "Been fishing yet, Cris.?" The judge sits 
down by me and tells me of a muscallonge he took a week 
ago. I listen and dare not dispute the court, although I 
know he is human and enthusiastic. 
****** 
I am called on a personal injury case — as Mrs. Josiah 
Allen would call it, a "dubersome" one. I must quit now, 
say goodby to my readers, and attend to the evidence. 
Charles Cristadoro. 
Camp Happy. 
Camp Happy was situated in the old pine grove, just 
on the edge of the lake. 
The camp consisted of a two-room, one-story log 
hut built many years before, and as time had made it 
little fit for use, it had been patched up from time to 
time by some hunter or trapper stopping for a night, 
and now presented the appearance of a mass of logs, 
brush and bark, in which might be distinguished one 
door and two windows. 
But for all this dilapidation, Camp Happy had once 
deserved its name, and even now every turn disclosed 
some rustic chair or bench that led one to dreaming of 
the happy time when the camp was settled and all was 
ready for one long week of freedom and enjoyment. 
As you sit on the little three-cornered bench by the old 
door, you remember the summer you went camping 
with the happy family that is now scattered. 
The first morning of that delightful week you are up 
at 4 o'clock and out on the lake trolling, and the pick- 
erel you lost must have weighed 4 pounds — while the 
one you got weighed 13 ounces. Just as you are haul- 
ing in the biggest one a voice disturbed the morning's 
stillness and you jumped — and the pickerel got away, 
but then you are somewhat consoled, for the call 
meant breakfast, and as you row in you suddenly re- 
member you are hungry. 
After breakfast, armed with a pail and a net, you 
go through the woods, the long pasture and finally 
come to the frog pond, where you "wade" and come 
out victorious with a net full of little frogs that will 
surely tempt the big black bass you saw in the clear, 
still water in the early morning. 
Again that gentle reminder that you are hungry 
causes you to look at your watch, and you can scarcely 
believe it is 12 o'clock. With a revengefi:'. ^'^eling to- 
ward the frog that has just jumped from the pail into 
the pond, you take the net and heavy pail and start for 
Camp Happy, wondering why it seems so far away. 
After the good dinner and a nap in the hammock, 
which, as it hangs under the big pines, is irresistible, 
you get out the new fish poles and rig them with the 
best lines and most carefully chosen hooks. 
With a pail of spring water pushed under the end 
boat seat, the bait pail in the middle where it will be 
handy for both your chum and yourself, and the poles 
laid just so across the seats, you take up the oars and 
row to the old snag that sticks out of the water, oppo- 
site the old hill pine that has so man}' dates carved in 
its bark. You bait your hook with the liveliest frog 
you can find, throw it into the deep water midway 
between the old snag and the grassy point that owns 
the only boathouse on the lake. 
You wait ten minutes — ^wonder why you don't get a 
bite — surely the bait must be gone^ — pull up the line, 
but the frog is yet lively, so again 3'ou drop the line 
over the other side of the boat, and before the hook 
sinks you feel a jerk and almost before you know it a 
bass IS inches long (by your pocket rule), is flapping 
and splashing water all over your feet. Finally you 
get a good hold of him and succeed in putting him on 
the "stringer" that is tied to the oar lock, where he 
does, indeed, make a good show. You stay in this 
place until you think the bass must have departed to 
the shady side of the lake over by the big chestnut 
trees, so you row over there and stay until the fog 
begins to rise on the far fiats and you know the bass 
are through biting for the day. You are very proud 
of your string of nine large bass when ypq U|i4 at 
