Forest and Stream 
$3 a Year, 10 Cts. a Copy, 
Six Months, $1.50. 
NEW YORK, SATURDAY, JANUARY 4, 1913. 
VOL. LXXX.—No. 1. 
187 Franklin St., New York. 
Old Leviathan of Burnt Mountain Lake 
By PAUL BRANDRETH 
S PRING in the Adirondacks commences with 
the second week in May and ends with 
the first ten days in June. There is no 
slow unfolding of vegetation, no period of 
adolescence, no gradual persuasion of bud into 
leaf. The season is sharp and crisp and 
martial; and as if by magic the cracking joints 
of winter leap into the halcyon strength of 
youth. 
Frequently when you visit the woods in 
early May, you will find them as bare and empty 
as late November, filled with big patches of 
snow and a winter lingering sense of nakedness. 
But less than two weeks later a delicate glow 
favorite water, than up pops his friend, as 
hearty as the year before and as generous with 
his appetite. It is the old story that never 
grows stale, the old excitement that never falls 
lax, and always the thrill is the same, when this 
champion of our hopes gulps the proffered lure 
and is off with colors flying in the first rush of 
contest. 
It came about one May morning that a 
trio of anglers set out on the trail which led to 
a certain wild lake in the Adirondacks. 
Ladened with rods and fishing tackle, they 
trudged along, swallowing deep breaths of the 
bark-fragrant air, and listening to the drum- 
As you near Burnt Mountain Lake the 
“carry” slides gently down hill into a spongy 
swamp and ultimately brings you to the bank 
of a smooth-flowing stream, which empties a 
few hundred yards below into the lake. Black 
alders bow over the water, a kingfisher rattles 
upstream as you approach, and constantly you 
hear the wind sighing among the feathery tam¬ 
aracks overhead. 
It was here, after a good fifty-minute 
tramp that the anglers arrived. A little back 
from the trail, pad-locked and turned bottom 
up on a spruce scaffolding, lay the guide boat 
that was to serve the day’s expedition. 
RUBE AND LEVIATHAN. 
FISHERWOMAN, BEAU BRUMMEL AND RUBE 
of buff' and apple green will .creep along the 
mountain sides; the shores of lake and river 
will film with pollen dust, and the madrigal of 
the rose-breasted grosbeak soar rich and clear 
from the budding maples. Yet the very short¬ 
ness of the season which plunges so abruptly 
from winter into summer lends it a new signi¬ 
ficance and enjoyment. The air savors of 
frosty vigor; the woods are open and sun-filled, 
and not a brook, or stream, or lake, but holds 
a ravenous clan of trout—big and little, lantern- 
jawed and diminutive—all hungry as bears and 
ready to devour the first morsel that comes 
along. 
And even as the trout are rapacious, so are 
the fishermen. Indeed, their condition is 
mutual, for no sooner has the man made fast 
his leader and sent his flies flickering over some 
ming of partridges echo dry and resonant 
through the forest. 
The day was delicious. Pools and gulfs of 
sunlight lay between the open flies of the gray- 
boled trees; the woods -seemed literally to 
swim and expand; in the scented heat of early 
spring, and the angler’s spirits waxed gay and 
expectant. 
When they had gone about a mile on the 
trail. Rube, who, under the load of a padk-bas- 
ket, was bringing up the rear, called a sudden 
halt. 
“Sugar,” he murmured, “I’ve left that durn 
net behind agin.” 
“Isn’t that the good one?” somebody asked, 
referring to the one he carried. 
“No, it ain’t,” mused Rube; “but it’s too 
late ter go back, so she’ll hev ter do.” 
Rube unhitched his pack-basket and ap¬ 
proached the boat. Then he paused, fumbling 
through his pockets. 
“What’s the matter?” asked “Beau Brum- 
mel,” who was a red-hot fisherman and eager 
to be off. 
“I’ve forgot the dum key,” said Rube, 
peevishly. * 
“Well, what are we going to do,” put in 
the “Fisherwoman,” slapping furiously at a 
horde of black flies, gathering about her head. 
Rube gazed thoughtfully at the ground. 
“I suppose we’ll hev ter cut the tree down,” 
said he at last; and down it came accordingly, 
after much labor and unkindly language. The 
chain holding the pad-lock was slipped off and 
the boat carried down to the water’s edge. 
“For goodness sake, let’s get out of here!” 
