650 
FOREST AND STREAM 
May 24, 1913 
ful companion when we were wee laddies, fish¬ 
ing in the big pools of a small burn with a 
boortree rod and a hook and line baited with a 
wriggling worm. I have a dim recollection of 
certain persons using a rattan under painful 
circumstances in conjunction with these out¬ 
ings during the age of “spare the rod and spoil 
the child.” In the boyhood days, what a treat 
it was to think that the school would not keep 
on Saturdays, when we could go for a whole 
day fishing in the Fidich, or perhaps cast our 
line into the clear waters of the Spey for big 
trout or silvery salmon, and, on school vaca¬ 
tion, fish the amber waters of the Deveron or 
white rapid waters of the Dee, if, perchance, the 
needful—which in those days was not always 
certain—could be acquired. 
We twa hae paid ’It i’ the burn 
Frae morning sun till dine; 
But seas between us braid hae roar’d 
Sin’ auld hang syne. 
—Robert Burns. 
Some of the greatest pleasures of life come 
from friction with its difficulties. I know that 
anything that is easily acquired is generally of 
insignificant value, and the fruits of easy toil 
have a bad taste. During these three-score 
years I have learned the lesson that life is 
neither a pain nor a pleasure, but a serious 
business for us to live out and to terminate 
with honor. 
It is a long way, and there is many a 
watery wave between the heather-clad hills of 
Scotland and the pine-covered mountains of 
the Adirondacks or the white birch woods of 
Maine, but the sport is the same and the spirit 
of angling is identical. Izaak Walton called it 
the “gentle art”; but for me to write of Walton 
on angling would be to hold a lighted taper 
to illuminate the sun. 
The mystic call had commenced to get into 
my system, the show of Easter flowers in the 
florist’s windows, or the beds of bright-colored 
tulips in the parks, may have been the origin 
of it in this case, or maybe it was the out-of- 
doors flavor of the articles in the magazines 
devoted to outdoor life. One or two rainy days 
furnished a reasonable excuse for overhauling 
the fishing paraphernalia, and by the middle of 
May I had all the symptoms of a well-defined 
case of fly-fishing fever. About the time spring 
was melting into the margin of summer, I felt 
the trend of vagrant inclination. 
I looked carefully over the situation, and 
came to the conclusion that I would arrange 
for a trip to Franklin county, Maine, as the 
most inviting place to spend a vacation where 
vve could have a greater variety of fishing with¬ 
in a radius of a few miles, such as could con¬ 
veniently be enjoyed in a short vacation. It 
combined the Spencer Stream, where the fish¬ 
ing was superb, and near it from Eustis up the 
Dead River, which, in fact, is as lively a little 
stream as one could find. Tim Pond, a small 
sheet of w'ater where Laura Louise and I spent 
two weeks, is a small pond less than two miles 
across, wdth sandy shores. The pond has no 
inlet or outlet, but is fed by springs. The water 
rises and falls a few feet, as natural conditions 
permit, and it contains a great many small 
bright-colored trout from a half to one and 
a half pounds each. I tried to get them to rise 
to my flies during the middle of the day, but 
they would not. About a half hour before sun¬ 
down and during the hour of twilight they 
would take the'fly actively. The surface of the 
water on the margin of the lilypads would seem 
fairly alive with these beautiful bright-colored 
trout, which were cooked to perfection, at the 
camp of about twelve log cabins, built to ac¬ 
commodate small parties, with one big roomy 
cabin that served as a sort of “casino” or 
“banquet hall.” 
We had a warm reception on our arrival— 
the whole camp seemed abandoned to merri¬ 
ment, as we passed to the cabin assigned us. 
We could hear amateur musicians rendering on 
various instruments, old familiar tunes, and we 
were ushered into the dining cabin to the 
strains of “The Cure For All Care,” and never 
did an assembly of fishermen display a jollier 
galaxy of countenances. Those that were not 
handsome, at least showed every indication of 
being happy. 
The meals were varied even more than one 
would expect, considering the rocky road over 
which we traveled from Eustis. The dinner 
commenced, continued and concluded with trout 
cooked with the high art of simplicity, in every 
conceivable style, to a turn, with a perfection 
of flavor that I have rarely seen equalled, ex¬ 
cept at Morrison Rogers’ restaurant on Sixth 
avenue. New York city. 
When the sun was high and the days were 
warm, we often strolled along the trails in the 
shade, gathering a few wild flowers, and often 
found wild berries and sometimes wild honey. 
It may not be the most fashionable form of 
summer diversion, but it was enjoyable and left 
no dregs in the cup. Nature is always as young 
as ever, even if some of her lovers have a few 
gray hairs, and, if you chance to meet another 
in the same path, you will quite likely unfold 
a new blossom of friendship; but any one who 
is prejudiced against chance can not consistent¬ 
ly undertake this innocent pastime. Nature 
does not appoint a day on the calendar or a 
place on the map for her wild flower exhi¬ 
bitions. 
It is in quaint wanderings through such 
scenery, that the mind enjoys the beauty and 
majesty of nature and the imagination 
quickens into rapture, and we revel in incom¬ 
municable luxury of thought. 
In the curriculum of life, many branches 
of learning are taught, but the great lesson 
we learned from those pilgrimages was the 
secret of contentment. 
After a pleasant sojourn at Tim Pond, we 
reluctantly bade a farewell to this hospitable 
camp, where nature’s face was fair, and whose 
spell not only impressed the senses and ex¬ 
cited the imagination, but where we had trout 
fishing to our heart’s content. 
A rough ride on a buckboard and a short 
journey on the railroad brought us to the 
Rangeley Lakes, far famed for large trout. 
There we made a conquest of some of the 
large ones, and certainly we had little chance 
of committing the judicial error of killing any 
trout under size. We employed our greatest 
perseverance and measured patience with our 
longest yard stick, but success smiled on our 
efforts at rarely more than one a day, all big 
ones. Those Rangeley trout are giants; but 
like all monsters, their size was at expense of 
beautiful features and , graceful form. They 
seemed to be old and over-fed, and over in¬ 
dulgence has on trout probably the same ef- 1 
feet as on higher animals with which we are I 
more or less familiar; per se the green turtle j 
soup—old burgundy—port-wine complected and ] 
corpulent gormand, which type of individual, ; 
fortunately, rarely is seen on the banks of j 
streams or with a fly-rod in canoe. He is more 
likely to be met with in the horse racing pad- 
dock, which leads us from the chance in trout- 
ing to other outdoor forms of sport wherein 
the fickle goddess is omnipresent. 
Baseball—that all popular American game 
—has been played in its various forms for a 
century, and for probably half of that time has 
been recognized as the American National 
game. The honor of its place of origin is 
disputed. Philadelphia claims to have been its 
birthplace, while New York insists on taking 
title to its discovery, and if the question were 
to be disputed on the field between the votaries 
of the game in those two cities, the umpire 
would have my heartfelt sympathy. 
The baseball “fan” has a fairly good excuse 
for contracting ball fever and for sitting on 
the “bleachers” on hot summer afternoons with 
the thermometer at too in the shade, and good¬ 
ness knows how much more in the hot burning 
sun. The impelling force of great numbers 
seems to keep the amusement active, probably 
l)ecause it requires only a couple of hours to 
see a game, necessitating only short absence 
from business, as professionally it is played in 
towns and cities well populated. 
If judged , by the fault-finding with the 
umpire who, on some occasions is as unpopu¬ 
lar as a rainy holiday, where often some fans 
get so mad that if they bit themselves they 
would probably get hydrophobia. Nevertheless, 
we ought to be patriotic, as it is purely an 
American affair from the small boy with his 
dearly cherished ball and bat, to the gray¬ 
haired, sun-tanned veteran with a season ticket. 
The game of golf, like a good many other 
things we enjoy, is of Scotch origin. James 
the Sixth of Scotland, and First of England, 
arranged the game, and it is claimed for him 
that he was a great scholar. But if all that is 
written of him be true, he often assumed the 
role of a pronounced pedant, and believed in 
“the divine right of kings.” Often he played 
golf with his courtiers on the Scotch links. 
This game has become a leveler of all ranks 
of society, to the extent that the famous “oil 
man” of many millions frequently plays the 
game with his neighbor the “ice man,” and al¬ 
though up in years, he is still young. His 
complexion, perhaps a little wrinkled, still is 
rosy, while some of his sour-complected critics 
of lesser importance and fewer years are like 
a bundle of kindling wood—all broken up. 
A troublesome temper very rarely mellows 
or sweetens with age, and a sharp, vicious 
tongue is the only double-edged weapon that I 
ever knew to grow keener through constant 
use. 
The world is indebted to the genius of the 
Scotch for many things, and so, as a natural 
consequence, they called upon these industrious 
people for something to occupy spare moments, 
after nature’s mantle of green had disappeared 
under a covering of snow and ice. 
Curling, that intensely Scotch game, the 
origin of which we know not of, though no 
one will dispute it as being one of the oldest 
