FOREST AND STREAM 
473 
Jo 
The Call of the Brooks and the Birds 
I T WAS a stormy day in March, and I was 
making some minor purchases in rod trim¬ 
mings, as all good fishermen do occasionally. 
The door opened, and the following interroga¬ 
tion interrupted me: “Es Mr. Mac Maisters en?” 
The question was answered in the negative by 
the affable salesman. “Ahm sorry—’cause ah ben 
wantin’ to see ’im.” 
He went straight up in the air about six feet, 
and was about as fat as a Calcutta bamboo pole. 
His locks, long on the sides, were snow-white, 
and were surmounted by a woolen cap that had 
been placed there evidently with the intention of 
remaining. His face was smooth-shaven, and 
his teeth had received good attention, judging 
from the amount of gold displayed. 
Passing along the show-case and glancing over 
the array of reels, a far-away look came into 
the old man’s eyes, and turning to his companion 
he said: “Ah say Jock—look at thot”—pointing 
to a reel—“juist lek th’ one ah loast up on the 
Saint Lawrence.” “Aye, Wellie, mon—th’ same 
to a p’int. Juist look at th’ assortment!” replied 
Jock. 
Jock stood as tall as Wellie, and was just as 
fat and hoary—a well-matched team in every par¬ 
ticular, save that Jock had a growth that de¬ 
scended straight down from the under side of his 
chin to the top button of his waistcoat. I judge 
they were anywhere from seventy to seventy-five 
years old—two old fishermen, grown old follow¬ 
ing the streams. 
“Young mon,” said Jock, “ah ben buyin’ teckle 
here for th’ pahst twainty year. Aye mon, ah 
ken wen ye had no more nor a wee lettle shop 
weth p’raps hauf a dozen guns en mebbe no more 
nor a dozen feshin’ rods; but mon, ye had some 
guid customers them taimes, en they knew whut 
they wanted—they did thot.” He wasn’t in any 
hurry to make his purchase. Meantime Wellie 
went around looking over the stock—“spearin,’ ” 
he called it. Finally, edging along the show-case 
toward the salesman, he said: “Mebbe you’re 
havin’ some Snack hooks aroun’ th’ place—ah 
wes thinkin’ gin ye had, ah micht spear some¬ 
thin’ to me foncy.” 
The salesman inquired whether he wanted sin¬ 
gle or double gut, and the size. “Th’ saize es ut 
mon dear—trout saize, sengle snail.” 
The salesman handed out the hooks, where¬ 
upon Wellie eyed them with a critical eye and 
finally said: “Nae mon—thot’s not th’ hook. Ah 
want th’ Snack hook—-th’ Snack-bent.” The 
salesman, seeing that there was some dissatisfac¬ 
tion, sent an assistant downstairs. He returned 
in a short time with the same hook but of heavier 
wire. “Aye mon,” said Jock, “ye canna foo wi’ 
’im—juist show ’im th’ hook an’ he’ll tell ye gin 
ut be for trout or no.” 
“Aye Wellie, thot’s th’ hook for mine—d’ye 
mind th’ bend—thot’ll tele trout w’en all th’ ither 
hooks be played oot.” 
“Aye Jock, an’ ut canna be beat,” said Wellie. 
“Gin ah micht look about a bet, ah micht spear 
ck and Wellie 
—The Wind in the Pines—The Smoke of the Camp Fire—Who can Resist? 
By George Wesley Beatty. 
some more. Ah ben thinkin’ gin we micht look 
et a lain apiece. Ah say mon, hev ye got a selk 
lain—lavel, a rale guid bet o’ lain, thot kin stan’ 
th’ wear en tear? Ah micht no buy ut, remaim- 
ber, but ah thocht ah micht look over whut ye 
hev, es mine’s a trifle auld.” The appropriate 
lines were exhibited, to the evident satisfaction 
of both. The line was selected and duplicates 
ordered. 
Jock seemed to have a penchant for the reel 
case and returned to it now for about the tenth 
time. He remained very quiet as he gazed long 
and fondly at the reels. He walked over to the 
side of the store, humming a snatch from “Loch 
How Small the Stream Looks to You Now. 
Lomond,” turned his back to the others, and re¬ 
moved his glasses, apparently for the purpose of 
cleaning them. When his back was turned he re¬ 
placed them and brought out a leather purse, 
opened it and looked in, closed it carefully, re¬ 
placed it in his pocket, and then came back to the 
reel case again. “Aye, Wellie, thes es open 
weather for March—there’ll be lettle ice in th’ 
stream ahm thinkin’! Ah was thinkin’” (moving 
up to the reel case and mopping his forehead) “ah 
micht treat mesil to a real guid winch” (reel). 
Wellie glanced up over his glasses in surprise. 
Jock was becoming reckless. However, they se¬ 
lected a reel. Wellie found about this time that 
his reel was “wearin' awa’ ” some, so he came 
down for anither. They weren’t buying much, 
but they were having a good time. Mercy, how 
prodigal they considered themselves with their 
wealth!” 
They were nearly finished when Wellie be¬ 
thought him that it “micht be a guid thing to 
hev a landin’ net.” “Nay mon, juist th’ plain net, 
wethout a rem,” said Wellie. “We kin fet a rem 
to ut oursels.” So the net was purchased. Now 
came the momentous question of “summing up.” 
The salesman added it up in the twinkling of an 
eye and handed the sheet to Wellie, who, deliv- 
erating a long time, handed it to Jock, who did 
likewise. Jock handed it back to the salesman, 
requesting him to “count ut up” again to make 
sure. 
“Sex dollars en sexty-seven cents,” said Wellie,. 
looking at Jock with an awed expression. “Ut’s 
ahmost th’ saize o’ a taen dollar bell. My, but we 
spent a lot o’ siller, Jock!” Jock had moved 
away, almost appalled at their prodigality, but 
Wellie called: “Wait up a bet, Jock, tu ah get 
th’ change.” “There’ll be lettle a cornin’ frae 
taen dollars, Wellie,” said Jock ruefully. Glanc¬ 
ing at each other with an “I don’t care” look, 
they heaved a sigh and civilly bade the salesman 
good-day. As they moved away, Jock, who 
feared the partnership in the net was not fully 
understood, remarked: “Wellie, remaimber, ah 
haud a hauf share in th’ net.” “Aye Jock,” said 
Wellie, “share en share alaike!” 
I should like nothing better than to follow the 
two old gentlemen into the woods. Two con¬ 
genial chums, innate with the fishing instinct, 
every thought and impulse in unison. 
It wasn’t often they got down to the Metropolis, 
and the amount they spent probably meant the 
denial of a great many other things when they 
reached home. It will not be many more years 
that these two old disciples of Walton will follow 
the stream—life’s stream is pretty near its end 
with them. It may never have had many rapids, 
but it undoubtedly was pretty well rock-strewn 
with numerous falls and stiff uphill work. They 
were of a type of fishermen that are fast disap¬ 
pearing. It seems too bad that their pleasure 
could not be unalloyed—but that it must be tinc¬ 
tured with the constant reminder of the sordid 
necessities of life. “There are more worthy dis¬ 
ciples of Walton out of the North Woods than 
in it,” and this is due largely to the lack of neces¬ 
sary funds. Some of the finest examples of game 
preservation and protection I have seen were 
among the lowly workingmen, who struggle day 
after day, looking forward to the “day off” when 
they might go afield. 
What keen enjoyment is theirs who receive 
only the holidays afield! The rods come out of 
their cases winter evenings and are overhauled 
and everything is prepared against the “day off”; 
and then when the day arrives, how short it 
seems—the sun seems to hasten to the horizon 
with almost indecent haste. The day was too 
short, and we had planned to do so much! But 
oh, the enjoyment of it! How we threw our 
whole soul into it! The morning dew on the 
grass, scintillant with the thousand colors of day¬ 
break, the blackbird’s “o-kah-lee,” the catbird’s 
chant, the cooling shade of mid-day—how de¬ 
licious that rest under the spreading branches 
where we ate’our lunch!—the whispering wind 
in the pines o’erhead, the warm sunlight on our 
