136 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Aug. 3, 1912 
shaded areas of the northeast face of the bluffs. 
Icicles clung to the shelving rock. 
An hour before dusk 1 espied a small clear¬ 
ing in the distance and gazing beyond a well 
known landmark on the east approach of the 
river-—the large bluff of rock called Bee Rock. 
Yes, I had reason to remember it, for only the 
spring before I saw a four-point whitetail leap 
to his death on the gravel bar—a palpable case 
of suicide. It was in the little valley upon which 
the rock frowned, and where the blue smoke of 
green wood fire curled up, that I realized was 
one place where I could remain for the night. 
The character of my host was doubtful as the 
vindictiveness of former feuds in the valley re¬ 
mained, and a certain intangible hostility against 
a man from the city was still there, and I doubt 
if this feeling will ever be eradicated. A cer¬ 
tain apprehension took hold of me as I dropped 
to the flat to apply for a night’s lodging, and 
more than that, if fishing was good, a week 
would find me there, but the owner of the small 
farm was a dangerous citizen when aroused, and 
I thought caution was necessary. 
Through the second growth hickory on the 
outside of the fence a man and a woman pulled 
laboriously a cross-cut saw. I walked over to 
them and offered the conventional “Howdy,” 
responded to in the same tone as offered, 
possibly a little brusker and sl’ghtly tainted with 
curiosity as well as suspicion. I seated myself 
on another log, showing no undue eagerness to 
enter into conversation, and watched the slow 
severing of the hard wood. We remained under 
this spell of uncommunicativeness for at least 
thirty minutes, and the subject uppermost in my 
mind, a sleeping place for the night, as yet re¬ 
mained unbroached. 
Two children came to the clearing—dirty 
little bare-headed urchins. The older, a girl 
about eight years, was leading a younger one, a 
boy. I noticed that the left hand of the boy 
had a repulsive bandage around it, and the owner 
flinched as he stepped gingerly over strewn limbs. 
“What’s the matter with the little chap’s 
hand ?” I asked of the father. 
He turned to me with an expectant look and 
explained: “Poor little devil got three fingers 
chopped off; got hold of my tie-axe and tried 
to chop some pine knots. Do you know he ain’t 
slept none since it happened.” 
“Plow long since it has happened?” I asked. 
“Three days.” 
“Have you done anything for it?” 
“Yes, wrapped a piece of fat meat on it 
after we got. the bleeding stopped, but he’s still 
pretty sore. I guess I’d better take him to a 
doctor next week if we go to town, but the 
river’s done been too high of late to ford; dunno 
when I’ll git a chance ” 
“If you don’t mind I’ll dress his hand,” I 
offered. “If you have some hot water at the 
house I’ll fix the little fellow up,” I added. 
There was in my tramping clothes an emer¬ 
gency outfit which I always carried, and told the 
big man of it. Pie immediately picked the 
youngster carressingly in his arms and struck 
out for the shanty, visible at a distance of 200 
yards on the ridge. His wife and I followed. 
His house was a large log house of one 
room crowded with beds, stove, tools and in con¬ 
fusion of dirtiness. But there was one agree¬ 
able prospect—the large open fireplace, and on 
two smouldering logs steamed a kettle. I took 
the little fellow in my lap and proceeded to un¬ 
wind the covering. P'rom a bowl of warm water 
the mother had placed within easy reach, I satu¬ 
rated the hand and was able to unwrap it with¬ 
out much pain. What a sight met my eyes as 
the last remnant of cloth came from the wound ! 
A dirty, repulsive, festering, gangrenous sore. 
“You are a brave fine fellow,” I said to the 
unflinching young one as I washed it with anti¬ 
septics and followed with a dressing of absorb¬ 
ent cotton. Aside to the parents who were over¬ 
looking my amateur efforts at surgery I re¬ 
remarked : “Jessie, I want to take a picture of 
him, the bravest boy I ever saw, and I'll do it 
to-morrow if you will only keep me over night.” 
The parents stepped back amazed at my 
knowledge of their names, and the boy laughed 
out: “Pap, my hand ain’t hurting none now.” 
At the same time he threw me such a grateful 
look. 
“How did you ’un know my name?” drawled 
the father in surprise. The description offered 
to me in advance of him had been too accurate 
to mislead, and I also remembered his face as 
one of the cedar rafters that occasionally visited 
my town. 
“B.,” I exclaimed, “I want to stay a while. 
Now don’t get a false impression about me. I’m 
a game warden; I have nothing at present, 
strange to say, against your crowd, but I want 
to do some fishing on Big Creek. I have a week 
to myself, and I want to make the most of it, 
so it’s up to you to say git or stay.” I could see 
amazement, hatred and kindred facial expres¬ 
sions melt under the rapidly growing warmth of 
gratitude. He lowered his soft brown eyes and 
extended his hand to me, and his wife gained 
confidence and blurted in with the big moun¬ 
taineer. 
“Well, it’s a case of stay as long as you 
want to, and I'm sure everyone’s gwine to treat 
you right.” We both laughed, and from that 
moment I felt comfortable, and it might be well 
to say that all the natives showed me marked 
respect, and did everything in their power to 
make my visit a memorable one. While the men 
of the hills had slight respect for the game 
laws, and prior to this visit, I was continually 
in conflict with them, I had no need to be on 
my guard against the customary pernicious nag¬ 
ging that undesirable visitors are subjected to. 
I had his word and it sufficed for me. Across 
Current River I was fairly familiar with the 
country. I had tramped it before to the extent 
of the small village of the Rat postoffice, and 
during the jaunt had become acquainted with 
the promises of Big Creek. 
Morning came with its transendent glow of 
pink, and as it touched the yellow sedge-clad 
hills and flashed back a light of gold, a mar¬ 
velous transformation had taken place; the un¬ 
kempt hut was now clean, the food was good and 
I reveled in comforts unlooked for the day be¬ 
fore. 
Climbing into the hollowed pine log canoe I 
pushed across the swollen river to the mouth 
of Brushy Creek, took the waterway and followed 
it about a mile, where a fallen maple log made 
easy crossing, then I changed my route to one 
due north and climbed an immense hill; an hour 
elapsed in going over it. At its base flowed 
swiftly Big Creek, while in the eastern divide 
of the hills I discovered all of the branches to 
be clear and in a normal condition of flow. On 
the side I had passed the day before, unprece¬ 
dented rains at the head of the Jack’s Fork had 
given the waters an ugly appearance. I figured 
from my present location I could have five miles 
of fishing water to the river, and believed that 
I was to be the first person who had ever cast 
a fly on the transparent stream. I was in a nar¬ 
row valley and could see the maple trees drip¬ 
ping slowly in the crude cups their sap; it was 
the maple sugar district of the county. 
It was not necessary to select a particular 
pool. All the water course looked likely. As¬ 
sembling my rod I dressed my leader with a 
trio of royal coachman. I made my first cast 
across to the opposite bank under a leaning birch. 
I had acquired the right side and found few trees 
or entangling growths on the other side. 
My first offering received immediate re¬ 
response, possibly thirty small red-eyes charged 
angrily at my flies. Two not over eight inches 
impaled themselves on the hooks. It was such 
a motley gathering of black bass that as I re¬ 
leased the lucky pair and returned them to their 
home I felt encouraged. Working slowly down 
stream I drew a two-pounder from under a 
rock and had quite an exciting tussle in keeping 
him away from the numerous large rocks in the 
stream. 
Another cast behind the same rock brought 
a double of about the same weight. I coaxed 
them to within ten feet of the bank when one 
tried an upstream route and the other, just as 
determined, frantically plunged down stream. 
Unfortunately a small boulder of flint, peering 
an inch above water, obstructed the leader. 
The up stream fish gave a leap and took with 
him the second dropper fly. As chance would 
have it, the other fish seemed content to use 
opener water for his battle, finally to yield grace¬ 
fully to the persuasions of my tackle. 
I left the stream for a moment on account 
of its narrowing and numerous obstructions, but 
eventually turned back to a broader stretch of 
water. It was fairly fast, and I should judge eight 
THE TRANSPARENT STREAM. 
