400 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[June 24, 1905. 
The Boy on the Farm. 
BY HERMIT. ' i ! ^ '^[f 1 1; 
Examine "Haunts of The Hunted," published by the 
Bangor & Aroostook Railroad Company, and it will 
disclose numerous trout brooks and streams in north- 
em Maine. Costigan Brook, town of Alton, will be found 
in the list. More than half a century before the rail- 
road existed, or before the railroad people had dis- 
covered this brook, the Boy on the Jr'arm had explored 
every foot of its course from its source to its mouth. 
In fact, Costigan^ Brook wound its crooked way through 
the woodlands of the new home farm. The farm had 
been hewed from the wilderness by the boy's father. 
To clear the land great forest trees had been cut down 
and burned into charcoal. A few years later substantial 
farm buildings were erected and the evolution of a farm 
from a wilderness was complete. 
One morning in June, after the cows had been turned 
to pasture and breakfast was over, the hired man took 
down his hoe and started for the cornfield. As he 
passed the kitchen door, he called to the Boy: 
"I'll take along the corn and beans; stufif your pockets 
with pumpkin seeds and come on." 
The Boy understood just what was wanted. He 
dropped pumpkin seeds from his pockets, while corn 
and beans were dropped from a small double basket 
made for the purpose. The basket was a present from 
a squaw, wife of Joe Polls, Thoreau's Indian guide. 
Previous to moving to the wilderness, the Boy's father 
owned a store in Oldtown, Maine, which was freely 
patronized by the Indians and lumbermen. Later Joe 
Polls and his brother Newel were employed by the 
Boy's father when exploring for lumber, loo miles up 
the Penobscot River. 
The corn ground was ready for the seed. It had been 
plowed, harrowed, furrowed out and manured in the 
hill. The Boy had to scrape a little soil, with his bare 
foot, over the manure, before dropping the corn. A 
pumpkin seed was dropped in every third hill. The 
beans were dropped between the hills of corn. The 
Boy thought it very hard work indeed and envied the 
hired man his job. To pull a little dirt over the seed 
was only play, and the after-patting was a thing of joy. 
However, the Boy knew that the hired man was too 
clumsy to drop seeds, that he would have to stop to 
make a count at each hill and so go halting over the 
field. The Boy understood that his own quick sight, 
aided by nimble fingers, would carry the work along 
swiftly and properly. 
While engaged with his work the Boy's mind was 
active. He saw that cornfield in the fall when the 
beans had been pulled and stacked on the adjoining 
grass land; when the corn had been gathered into 
shocks, exposing to view countless numbers of great 
yellow pumpkins. But the future of the cornfield did 
not wholly occupy the Boy's mind. Whenever he 
stopped to brush away the black flies and "minges," 
his gaze would wander longingly to the trout brooks 
in the distance, Costigan Brook in the edge of the 
woodland and Little Brook in plain view from the corn- 
field. While the trout were waiting to be caught, he 
thought it hard lines to be tied down to the cornfield. 
How he did wish it would rain. Then he recollected 
that the sun rose clear and went into a cloud. He had 
heard old Jim Norcross say it was a sure sign of rain. 
Then, too, he had heard the old man say: "Rain before 
seven, clear before eleven." 
That would not do at all. The Boy wanted a rainy 
day, so he hoped the rain would hold off until after 
seven. Sure enough it did. 
Soon after 7 o'clock the Hired Man pulled out his 
w:atch, or "turnip," as he called it, and called to the 
Boy: 
"It looks like rain, don't drop any more; by the 
time I catch up it will clear off or rain." The Boy be- 
gan to turn over the grass sods with his hands, to 
hasten the work, all the time wishing for rain. By the 
time the seeds were covered the rain came down and 
the Boy hurried to the house. His mother sent him to 
the spring for a pail of water and expressed surprise 
at his quick return. The Boy did not wait for the slice 
of gingerbread, which was always due with each pail 
of water, but seized an old hoe and started out for 
angle worms. 
Did he go to the barnyard? Not he. He knew a 
spot worth a dozen barnyards. He went to the sink 
spout. Here were worms nearly as large as snakes, 
but when the Boy turned up the soggy earth the vile 
odor nearly choked him. The only tin cans in those 
days were mustard boxes. They were small, so the 
Boy filled two. After Ije had sprinkled dirt over the 
worms and secured the covers, he went to the shed 
for a fishing pole. The Boy had a good supply of 
poles of all sizes and lengths. These poles were found 
in the woods ready made. One of the Boy's friends, a 
hunter and trapper, had revealed to him the secret 'of 
how to acquire ready-made fishing poles. 
Nearby the Boy's home there were great swamps 
filled with hackmatack trees. Where there chanced to 
be a meadow, or opening, a dense mass of seedlings 
^yould spring up around the edges. When these seed- 
lings were large enough for fishing poles, porcupines 
would bend them down and strip off the bark The poles 
gprun^ back and seasoned as hard as flint ' ' 
In Maine the larch, or hackmatack, is called juniper, 
so the Boy called his collection, "juniper fishing poles." 
The trapper had posted the Boy as to hooks and 
lines for trout and pickerel, so he was soon on the way 
to Little Brook. The rain soaked through his blue 
jumper and overalls, the only garments worn, except 
a cotton shirt. He did not like the smell of the blue 
dye, otherwise cared nothing for the wetting. 
There was a deep hole in Little Brook, where the 
sheep were washed every spring, and here the Boy 
expected to get one trout, if he could steal up to a 
clump of bushes without being seen by the keen-eyed 
resident. He reached the bushes all right- and cau- 
tiously dropped a wriggling worm into the deepest 
water. He could not see the bait, but instantly there 
was a rush from bank to bank, while the Boy felt the 
tug and several hundred thrills. He pulled the trout 
out with a steady hand, for the trapper had taught him 
how. While the trout was flopping about in the grass, 
the Boy cut a stringer, a forked hazel twig. After 
stripping the leaves off, he shoved the tip end under the 
gills of the trout and out through the mouth, then 
worked the fish down to the fork. He held the trout 
alo'ft and admired its beautiful spots, but when he saw 
hoAv desperately it was gasping, he felt a thrill of pity 
for the dying fish and just a twinge of guilt. 
The Boy knew it would be useless to fish longer in 
the deep hole. The frantic rushes of his trout had 
frightened everything away. One more spot in Little 
Brook, where there was a sunken log, gave up a small 
trout. 
The Boy left Little Brook valley and crossed the 
ridge to the valley belonging to Costigan Brook. It 
was too early to fish in the woods, far from the mouth 
of the brook. Later trout would seek the shaded 
places and cool waters of the springs that fed the 
brook, but now he must look for fish further down 
stream. He left his father's land and crossed to the 
next lot, which was also wooded. Here he tried several 
deep holes, but nothing came of it, so he climbed the 
line fence to the next lot, the Means Farm. 
Some years before a large hemlock tree had been 
blown down, and the upturned roots had left a- deep 
hole in the bed of the brook. From this hole the Boy 
pulled out two good-sized trout, after which he made 
a short cut to the old mill. This mill was a financial 
failure. A dearth of water had proved its downfall. 
Now it. was slowly but surely going to decay. Under 
its bed-timbers dwelt a wise old trout. The Boy called 
him old, because four years ago he had pulled the same 
trout above water, only to see him drop off the hook 
and escape. Since that day the old fellow had refused 
to take bait no matter how skillfully it might be 
presented. 
When the Boy reached the mill the trout, as usual, 
was in a little pool between the bed-timbers. The water 
was as clear as crystal, and the fish rested just above 
the gravelly bottom. The Boy sneaked into the mill 
and dropped his bait through a hole in the floor, to 
the pool below. The trout sculled himself up to the 
struggling worm, touched it lightly and then slowly 
backed water. The Boy pulled up the bait and dropped 
it again, with the same result. For a good half hour 
the wary trout was tempted until the Boy's patience 
gave out. As a last resort he tried hooking, and this 
sent the trout to his retreat under the timbers. 
There was a robin's nest in the mill plastered on a 
plate overhead, which interested the Boy, for he had 
lost his dinner one Sunday, while eagerly watching the 
birds in their labors at nest building. Now there were 
four greenish-blue eggs in the nest, and one was 
peeped. 
After leaving the Means Farm, the brook wandered 
through a mowing field and pasture. The owner of the 
farm was a "holy terror," and hated boys. He had 
long legs and could run like a deer, and woe betide the 
boy caught fishing on his premises! 
Once he had chased the Boy on the farm, but the Boy 
had taken to the woods, where his knowledge of wood- 
craft enabled him to escape. While he was lucky to 
escape a flogging, he was unlucky in having to sacri- 
fice a good fishing pole and line. 
The mowing field contained three deep holes. The 
Boy had to do some skillful engineering to reach these 
holes, unseen from the buildings. 
There was a high bank on the brook to the first deep 
hole, so the Boy by stooping and crawling managed 
very well. Three good-sized trout and a chub was his 
reward. The next hole was not so easy. There was a 
clump of bushes that ranged with the buildings; but to 
reach the clump, an open space had to be passed, which 
was in plain view from the house. Before attempting 
to cross the open spot the Boy cautiously raised his 
head above the bank and examined the dooryard. The 
farmer was at the woodpile, splitting wood. The Boy 
waited. He knew the farmer would not work long in 
the rain. Soon a woman appeared for a moment in 
the doorway, and seemingly spoke to the man, for he 
stopped splitting wood, and gathered on one arm 
what he would call a "burden of wood," and started 
for the house. If he had looked over his shoulder he 
would have seen a small boy streaking it through his 
grass field. Two trout were added to the string here. 
Then the Boy crawled behind a log fence to the next 
hole. Patient fishing only resulted in scoring a failure 
at this hole. 
The next hole was in the pasture, far away from the 
buildings. It was shaded by a mass of alders, through 
which the Boy had trimmed a narrow passage. The 
hole was broad and deep. At this time of the year it 
was usually well supplied with trout. Here the Boy 
met with first-class luck. Nine trout, little and big, 
made the string look quite respectable. 
The next trout hole was some distance away. It was 
a depression in the meadow, connecting with the brook, 
where boiling springs of the coldest water bubbled up 
through sand and gravel. The Boy made a short cut, 
up the hill past "The Little Red School House." Here* 
he stopped long enough to see if his mark was on 
the shingle where he had cut it the year before. Each 
boy had a mark of his own, similar to the marks used 
by lumbermen to identify logs. Rabbit Track, Crow 
Foot, Long Forty and many others were adopted by 
the boys. The Boy on the Farm had laid claim to 
Three Notches. Years later many a tree in the forests 
of Maine showed where the Boy had wandered. 
At the bridge he pulled out a small trout, but ex- 
pected better luck at the springs. These springs sup- 
plied water to the scholars and to two families nearby. 
Before the Boy could reach the springs, the "bully of 
the school," ran down from one of the houses and 
began to thrash the water with a 2stick. He sar- 
castically informed the fisherman that he would kindly 
go before and thrash the trout holes for him. The 
Boy made up his mind right then, that the "bully" 
would have to fight as soon as they reached the woods. 
Just then the big boy's father called and he reluctantly 
left, saying that he would follow later. He did not, 
however, so the fight was postponed. The Boy on the 
Farm did not fear the "bully," for a very good reason. 
The trapper had given him lessons in boxing, and had 
told him, that he had developed a swift, hard blow with 
his right, that would equal the blow of some men. A 
year later that right hand blow knocked out the "bully." 
The Boy on the Farm got a swelled head. It only 
lasted a few weeks, or, until a wiry backwoods boy 
licked the "stuffing" out of him. 
Below the bridge there was a gravel-bed in the brook 
which had forced the channel, for some rods, under the 
bank. Here the Boy added two good fish to his string. 
Down in the open woods a log had lodged across the 
brook; forming a rolling dam. The fall of water for 
several years had dug out a deep hole. A great sheet 
of froth and foam covered the pool. The Boy let the 
worm float over the log and into the foam, where it 
was seized with a savage rush, by the largest trout yet. 
Two smaller fish followed. 
The next hole was under the roots of a large elm 
tree. The tree stood in a bend of the brook, which 
caused the current to scoop out the soil far beneath the 
bank. The Boy had to creep up to his hole, for it was 
necessary to fish some distance from the tree. If a 
trout got into the net work of roots, it was a loss of 
fish, as well as hooks. Three trout were hooked, one 
of which was lost, but the Boy saved the hook, which 
pleased him much. Two trout were lured from beneath 
a sunken log a short distance below the tree. Here 
the Boy found back water and he was forced to wade 
for rods to reach the mouth of Spring Brook. There 
was a high bank where Spring Brook joined Costigan 
Brook, and what was better a very deep hole where 
trout loved to tarry when making their way up-stream. 
Below, thousands of acres of woodland were under 
water. The spring freshet had not yet subsided. Pen- 
obscot River had backed into Birch Stream; Birch 
Stream had backed _ into Costigan Brook, Costigan 
Brook had backed into Spring Brook, and Spring 
Brook was making the lives of the white hares miser- 
able in Cedar Swamp. 
The Boy spent several hours at this spot perched on 
a maple root with his back resting against the bole of 
the tree. His fish were by his side, and he sat on the 
ends of the stringer to make sure that none flopped 
off intO' the water. 
Lie caught sixteen trout before the fish refused to 
bite, and lost two, on account of the overhanging 
branches. It had cleared off and the sun was shining, 
so the Boy did not expect to get another fish. He 
never could catch trout in a clear day. After the fish 
had refused to bite, the Boy set his pole into the bank 
and left it to do the fishing, while he counted his catch. 
He made out forty-four trout and one chub. As he 
finished counting, a large mink swam to the spot and 
landed. He ran about in circles trying to locate the 
fish. The Boy threw the chub to him and he dove with 
it in his mouth into the deep hole. The Boy thought 
his nest must be in the high bank, as everything else 
was under water. 
It was late in the afternoon when the' Boy started for 
home. The black flies, after the rain ceased, nearly 
drove him crazy until he reached the field, where the 
wind swept them away. 
He was a tired, hungry boy when he reached home, 
and the brown bread and milk did taste so good. Later 
the Boy was instructed in fly-fishing, and at once 
adopted the new method. 
The Boy on the Farm is now nearing his sixty- 
seventh year. His fishing trips are few, except those 
that haunt the hours of slumber. It is a curious fact 
that he never dreams of fly-fishing, but often, very 
often he fishes Costigan Brook with a "juniper pole" 
and worni bait. Some of these dreams are so real ft§ 
