42 
FOREST AND STREAM 
[July is, 1905. 
Early Morning on Little River* 
The day began very early, as it was but half past 
two on a summer’s morning when I carefully closed 
the squeaking door and stole away. For some time I 
had tip-toed about the house, awaking pandemonium 
in my efforts to dress and quietly fortify the inner man 
against faintness until breakfast time. Outside it was 
dark as Erebus after the lighted room, and as I had 
come home but the night before and had not learned 
the lay of the land, my first adventure came as I 
tacked around the corner of the front verandah under 
the open windows of mother’s room, for I ran squarely 
a-foul the low wire netting with which she had guarded 
her young flowers 'from lawless dogs and cats, and with 
a suppressed exclamation and a terrible clatter, rod, 
creeJ, waders, and I went down in an ignominious heap 
amid promising sweet Wiliams and four-o’clocks and 
petunias. No word from above, however, and no 
damage to the old rod or to my old bones, as with 
great care I steered a wide course around the poor 
broken flowers, outside the great elms, and squared 
away toward a bridge two miles up the road. 
The luxury of a summer day is spread through all 
its twenty-four hours, and these last hours before the 
dawn have a charrr^ all their own. Deep sleep lies 
upon everything, and the gentle stirring of the soft 
air i's tbe^eath of sweet slumber. Sounds from miles 
away fainr^ catch the ear and every little rustle near- 
by quickens tlie sense. Under the village .trees it was 
black, but beyond, in the open, the yellow road stretched 
away and was lost over the rise beyond. The cool 
night breeze was laden with the scents of wood and 
rneadow, and the old-fashioned gardens^ — the fragrance 
of new hay, sweet odor of honeysuckle and that of 
late blooming syringas. Here along the wall ran a wild 
tangle of grape vine yielding its delicate perfume, be- 
yond a thicket of young pines whispered with balmy 
breath, and furrier on came the greeting in the pungent 
odor of sweet fern — that secret delight of boyhood, 
before owe has burned incense at the altar of Latakia 
and Perique. How clear this early morning air ! 
Along the tops of the northern hills lay the faint gray 
edge of the day that was beyond, and up in the eastern 
sky. burned those constellations that are so strange in 
summer — brave Orion, the “stormy Hyades” and the 
“diamond necklace of the Pleiades.” Higher still blazed 
great Jupiter. 
One must always drink at the cold spring that bubbles 
up in the alders above the road, and then comes the 
wood that reaches up the valley to the meadow below 
the bridge. This is enchanted land. Now and then 
to the quick ear comes the faint sound of some ripple 
of Little River, which the Indians called Apaguang. 
Time was when all pertaining to the red man found ill 
favor with our fathers, and it is not easy to win back 
those old names that were lost with all their woodsy 
flavor. Our Geological Survey friends have set their 
seal upon Little River and there is no escape. Deep 
in this wild tangle of laurel is a warm, sunny slope 
where, one May day, Web and I lay in perfect silence 
more than an hour in order to get a glimpse of certain 
tawny-coated, wicked-eyed little imps that lived in a 
terribly odorous burrow dug in the sand. By now they 
are securing around these hills and woods learning 
much wickedness from their wily fox mother. For in 
all this region not a turkey “gobbles” or “quits,” much 
to the annoyance of thrifty souls, but, alas! not greatly 
to the sorrow of certain lovers of sad-faced “hound 
dogs!” 
Little River leads a quiet and gentle life, flowing be- 
tween many hills down a valley mostly wooded, with 
here and there a reach of fine green meadow. Its 
waters are unvexed by any dashing torrent or any work 
of man more serious than an occasional_ small saw- 
-mill. Moreover, when the water is just right aiid the 
da^ and hour nicely chosen, with due consideration of 
the change of the moon and the glare of the sun, one 
possessing the proper spirit and knowing where_ to 
try his luck, may now and then catch a trout in Little 
River. Indeed, a few weeks earlier the dean of the fishing 
fraternity of our village drove up stream one morning 
when the Red Gods were making medicine and returned 
■later in the day with a basket well filled with beauties — 
not one under half a pound. Now, this kind of thing, 
like the discovery of a litter of young foxes, should 
not be made public, but the news did leak out and a 
wild aeal for fishing possessed the village below ours. 
Web told me that every morning for some weeks, and 
particularly on Sundays, a procession of teams of all 
kinds carrying men of -all kinds came up from the lower 
village and hurried off up the valley, and all through 
the afternoon these same teams, less sprightly and con- 
taining men in all conditions, straggled homeward. 
But the reports of catches were vague and uninterest- 
ing. The effect upon the fish, however, was demoraliz- 
ing, for when, a few days previous to my morning. Web 
and Edgar — mighty fi,«hers before the Lord, who 
possess the' confidence of the finny tribe of our valley — • 
ventured to pay their addresses to the . inhabitants of 
well known retreats for trout along the river, their 
approaches were treated with scorn, and they returned 
having met with the luck of those grand fishers of old 
who labored all night and caught nothing. 
it is a good plan to begin at the bridge, for there 
is a good pool, then a stretch of meadow and then a 
mile of woods in which the water lies just right. I 
do not know a prettier stretch of water for fishing 
nearer than the White Mountains, if one is not particu- 
lar about catching fish. It was when I reached the 
edge of the woods that “the rosy-fingered Dawn, the 
Daughter of the Morning,” appeared in her radiant 
glory over the northeast hills. A robin chirped, then 
another, then a jay screamed high on the hillside, and 
soon every thicket and all the trees were alive with 
song. Every bird was awake — robins, song sparrows, 
vireos high in the trees, warblers of various kinds, and 
here in a near laurel a Quaker-garbed catbird was 
pouring out his glad song in mad ecstasy. Only in the 
woods does daybreak come thus, and all these wild 
creatures see and are a part of the wonder of each 
dawn. ’Tis a pity the voice of man is not pitched in 
tune with the great chorus. The best he can do is to 
go a-fishing and be thankful deep in his heart that he 
is allowed once in a long time to listen to the glad 
voice of nature. How long the concert lasted I do not 
know, for I was enchanted; but after a time the woods 
became more quiet and from the softened chorus 
sounded the one voice of all that is to me the sweetest 
• — the veery’s. Gradually all other singers became 
silent, as if to listen to this divinest voice. The charm 
of those liquid spirals of song — those silver chimes — 
is indescribable. All the sweetness and purity and 
fragrance and mystery of the life of the woods seems 
to find its utterance in the voice of this brown-coated 
singer. It ever casts a spell over me and fills me with 
thoughts and feelings that cannot be expressed be- 
cause speech is too poor. It is a song of exaltation and 
nothing mean or unworthy can abide with it. * * * 
With the ceasing of the song there was a splash in 
the shallow water under a fern bank and the briefest 
glimpse of a brown, furry little creature scurrying 
awpv into the brush. Had the spell been over him, 
too? 
Artemus Ward, of blessed memory, once suggested 
that an occasional funny story improved a comic paper. 
The same wisdom might suggest that a fish or two 
might not be out of place in this fishing sketch. This 
is true, and there were a few fish that might be men- 
tioned as we pass along. But it is proper to confess 
that neither skill in the practice of angling nor much 
knowledge of its science and art are mine. In a 
very humble spirit, with hook and line and a few fresh 
worms, I am made glad if I catch two or three good 
trout, and to capture a dozen of the royal beauties is 
such wild luck that I am filled with dread lest dis- 
aster be imminent. Careful working of the pool under 
the bridge yielded one horn pout. This was doubtless 
intended as a joke by the river gods, for that pool is 
a good one, and I have taken pretty fish there. As for 
the rest of the river my mind recalls a thousand inci- 
dents that make the morning’s tale, but two only- need 
be mentioned. 
My veery was hidden in the thick hemlock that 
crowns the high bank over Deacon David’s Deep Hole. 
Standing in the ripple above the hole, I listened to his 
song, and my little friend in brown fur was listening 
by a tiny brook that tumbles down from a spring high 
up in the Deacon’s pasture and winds through the nar- 
row meadow to find its way into the Deep Hole. This 
is the place where trout live, and things did conspire 
that morning to mark the pool afresh in my memory. 
A lusty worm went sailing away down under the bank 
into the .deep water, and it proved a sore temptation 
to the Queen of the Deep Hole. She played the game 
as a queen should play, but it was all too short for her 
and soon she lay on a green turf under a wild rose 
bush. There never was a more beautiful trout. Not 
a blemish of color or form appeared on her perfect 
body. Her length was just a foot, and she weighed, 
upon reaching the house, ten ounces, and she was a 
perfect specimen of a noble race — a very queen. To 
have taken her life seemed a sad mistake. Though ad- 
vancing years bring a keener regret, when fortune 
brings to any rod a particularly beautiful fish or my 
gun takes the life of some happy creature in feather 
or fui', still the passion for rod and gun also becomes 
keener. 
I laid the fair creature carefully away in moss and 
fern with a wild rose for a garland and waded on. Be- 
low was the fallen trunk lying across the stream. Along 
the snowy covering of this narrow highway one cold 
day last December we followed the dainty track of a 
red fox as he crossed from ’Woodchuck Hill to Board- 
wine. The pool above gave nothing, but some distance 
below in a widening of the water came a vigorous bite. 
There was no doubt whatever that I had hooked the 
grandfather of the whole race of trout in Little River. 
I bravely guessed his weight, for all the strain I dared 
put on mv old rod failed to bring him nearer. What 
dreams of triumph and vanities of pride will possess 
one at such times. Nothing like this trout had been 
caught in the river this season, though fish of two 
pounds and more had been taken within the memory of 
man. There was a wild rushing back and forth in the 
pool, and it was keenly exciting for a while. The 
yielding came, however, and then I could take in line. 
I worked my way back to a shelving bed of pebbles, 
and here in a short time I landed a very pretty bass. 
Well, a bass is hardly in the trout class for beauty, and 
all that is clean and sweef in a fish, but h^ is a sturdy 
little ruffian and to play this one was a joy. I had to 
forgive him for not being a trout, even though he had 
put vain thoughts into my mind. He was twice as 
heavy as my trout. 
There were other trout — three of them — and two 
other bass, and goodness knows how many idiotic, pot- 
bellied dace I hooked and threw back. But the other 
trout were smaller and only moderately exciting in 
their antics. Before I realized that the sun had come 
well up over Woodchuck Hill the morning whistle down 
the valley was calling the busy villagers to their day’s 
work and I had reached the Gulf. This is an awful 
place. Dense laurel hedges it thickly on both sides, and 
the water is deep, the bottom rough and slippery and 
strewn with great boulders, so that the unwary angler 
is very apt, like Archie Moncur’s “waestrel,” in the 
final issue of his dissipation, to “gang plunk; aye, juist 
plunk !” And it was breakfast time — I had nO' doubt 
whatever about it — so here I left the cool water and 
gathered fresh moss and ferns and roses, made a clean 
bed in my creel for the fish and was soon home, bathed 
and eating breakfast as a man should eat. 
It will be many moons before I have another hour 
or two on Little River. October may bring a day 
with the partridges and quail over Potash Hill way, and 
it is our custom on Christmas, morn to start a fox in 
Salt Rock Woods, but though both these occasions give 
a certain fulness of life it is going a-fishing that fills my 
cup completely. 
Pacha* 
In the spring of 1870 I was in Paris, pursuing my 
studies. At the outbreak of the war most students, who 
were old enough, volunteered, and the old Dutch-Flemish 
fighting blood, inherited mostly from my mother’s side, 
asserting itself, I did like the rest.- It would take the 
whole of this paper to relate the vicissitudes, struggles, 
privations and sufferings of all kinds we went through, 
for the whole campaign was bungled, when after the ter- 
rible fighting at Balan and Bazeilles (Sedan) we were 
taken prisoners. I had two prospects before me : Give 
my word of honor not to fight any more during the war, 
when they would let me go home; or imprisonment in a 
North German fortress. Neither pleased me very much, 
and then and there I began to^ cudgel my brains for a 
means of escape. I asked permission to- accompany a 
squad of stretcher-bearers and surgeons going over the 
field to search for wounded, and as surgeons were in great 
demand, they gave their consent to the lieutenant doctor. 
We gradually went toward the River Meuse, the bord- 
ers of which are covered with trees and undergrowth, 
and, watching my chance, I^slipped in a clump of bushes. 
The others thought, I presume, that I was either caring 
for a wounded or in search of one, and paid no atten- 
tion to my absence for the time being. As it grew darker 
I crawled farther in the brush and hid myself. Hearing 
something rustle, I cautiously peered through the branches 
and saw a beautiful Arab horse, saddled and bridled, not 
thirty paces from me — I watched him for quite a while, 
thinking the rider was nearby, and finally ventured to- 
ward him. He seemed glad to see me; I spoke to him, 
and patted him, and we got acquainted. Horses, as well 
as men, suffered terribly in that campaign, and he was 
very thin, but as far as I could see, unharmed. I led him 
lower down the bank toward a place where there was 
some grass and browse, took off his saddle and bridle, 
and tying him with the reins and some rope I found in the 
holsters, gave him a chance to feed and lie down to rest. 
The plan was to get away from there before daylight 
as far as possible. The moon came up at about i o’clock, 
and we started away from the battlefield, keeping as much 
as possible under cover. At daylight we were three or 
four leagues away, up stream, always close to the river 
bank. That night I heard horsemen approaching, and 
Pacha either winded or heard them long before me, and 
I was afraid he would answ'er the other horses if they 
called., I covered his ears and eyes with my coat, all the 
time speaking soothingly to him, and four hussars passed 
us within twenty paces. I thought it was all up with me, 
but they rode on, never suspecting anything. 
The goal was Belgium by the safest and least frequented 
roads toward Bouillon (Belgian Ardennes). I was getting 
pretty hungry, and following a country road came to a 
little farm house. I boldly went to the door and explained 
that I wanted something to eat for my horse and myself. 
Fortunately I had enough money with me to see my way 
through until I could wire home. The farmer received 
me kindly, for those people naturally sympathized with, 
our misfortunes, and he satisfied our wants. After telling 
my story — for his good, honest, frank face inspired confi- 
dence — he advised me to take all the superfluous officer’s 
trappings from the saddle and bridle and leave them with 
him, also my uniform, and gave me a full suit of clothes 
of one of his sonSj promising to send the whole to me 
when times were calmer and ooportunity afforded, which 
he did. Dressed in the garb of a farmer I was compara- 
tively safe from capture by prowling hussars, and after 
several narrow escapes I succeeded in slipping through 
the Belgian pickets and arrived safely at Bouillon, where 
I had been before and had friends. Both my horse and 
myself needed rest, and writing home I told my people 
I was safe and sound on Belgian soil, and would pro- 
ceed in a few days, by easy stages, home, saying nothing 
of my ( ?) horse, , “ 
