Forest and Stream 
$3 a Year, 10 Cts. a Copy, 
Six Months, $1.50. 
NEW YORK, SATURDAY, AUGUST 31, 1912. 
VOL. LXX1X.—No. 9. 
127 Franklin St., Nevr York. 
Little Trails and Waters 
I T was now in the early summer season and 
the signs of growing things were manifest 
in every woodway, along the open meadow 
where the golden sun was pouring down its re¬ 
juvenating wealth to awaken from the earth 
clods the tempting green of another space of 
inimitable season of finery. The glory of sum¬ 
mer was in the air; warm and appealing was the 
glow of the sun high in the heavens, and again 
the birds were sending forth their calls in every 
By ROBERT PAGE LINCOLN 
clang of the cars and the rumble of the traffic; 
I heard the whirr of machinery, and the clash 
and clang of all those wheels that go to make 
commerce the octopus of our present-day life. 
The sweat was running down my brow, and what 
sun there was pouring in through the windows 
seemed sticky and unpleasing. How unlike the 
sun that I had often drank my fill of out there 
on those hillsides, when the season was young 
and fair, and the clover was blooming lush and 
by; night came and still that spirit of unrest 
lived and stirred in me and craved for the ex¬ 
citement that it is natural in us to fulfill. The 
streets were deserted and night fell, but as the 
hours crept on I gained no respite. Something 
was calling, calling. The shadows I considered 
were just enveloping the hills now as the after- 
math of a glorious sunset. It would lie still 
and serene there under the starlight with just 
enough wind in the heights above to rustle the 
"on placid waters.” 
wood lot where they were busily constructing 
their little homes to bring forth another brood 
of songsters. 
It was in such a season I found myself with 
the demon Work following me like the sordid 
creature he is, and what thoughts I had of tak¬ 
ing myself away from this unsavory situation 
were restricted indeed when my mind would take 
the course of those channels of necessity; but 
somewhere away back in my utmost conscious¬ 
ness I had that indelible picture on my mind 
of those woods and waters, where the birds 
nested, and where the little brooks, with their 
trout inhabitants, were awaiting the fly I would 
cast out to them. I seemed to see through the 
hazy dims of my vision that big one by the rock 
shelf rising high, with a swirl, and taking the fly 
with a jerk that set the reel singing and the 
blood tingling through my veins. But it is just 
a dream. Here was the present. I heard the 
perfumed! To what extremes the two advance, 
one the very height of pleasurable appeal, and 
the other the making of hard thoughts and sor¬ 
did mind. I wanted to be away from this clamor 
and dust, out there where the woods were now 
in their delicate dress of green, and the open 
road was inviting me to further trips into the 
land of enchantment. 
I seemed to see through the dims of my 
recollection that open road as it led haphazard 
away into the pleasant hills where ran the brook. 
The trout were there. Many a time I had drop¬ 
ped my line in those dark waters and had been 
welcomed with the leap of one of those tender- 
fleshed trout, the very finest of our fish. But 
dreams will vanish under the pressure of those 
factors that so often serve to unbalance the rules 
of nature, and I swung once more on the desk, 
for the demon Work was pointing with his thin 
finger to the task before me. The day slipped 
‘‘coaxing 'em out.” 
leaves of the trees into lullabies, and so cool 
the unrested spirit. And all would abide in that 
graciousness that can only be found close to the 
heart of nature with the glory of the wild spaces 
to enwrap one. 
I wandered into the suburbs, and though the 
air was fresher and the trees greener in con¬ 
trast with those in the city, still they had that 
inevitable touch of artificiality that always sets 
them in the pampered, unnatural class which 
never will appeal to the ardent lover of nature. 
Faces I saw everywhere. They smote my con¬ 
sciousness with the iron fist of some hate that 
had arisen in me; I did not care to see them. 
They were not part and parcel of my dreams, 
and were best excluded and relegated into a 
more kindly oblivion than I could make for them. 
I returned to my room, and there, sitting in my 
chair by the open window, watched the incidents 
of night take their wonted course. At about 
