July 15, 1911-] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
91 
another ledge extending from bank to bank—a 
natural dam. Toward one side was a single 
notch four feet wide, and through this the stream 
poured into another pool thirty feet below. Mid¬ 
way a great boulder lay, and the narrowed stream 
striking this spread in every direction, in a 
smother of white, the cool spray from which 
the faintest breeze carried to the tired anglers 
idling nearby. The roar of this fall discouraged 
conversation; indeed, I for one was content to 
sit on a submerged ledge in the cold water, for 
neath the hemlocks, and on sailing he said he 
was sorry that he should be absent in the spring, 
and that he could not return with me to try 
again for the big fellow and now and then to 
idle away a few hours beside the mountain 
stream. 
April was passing and I had not wetted a 
line, but there came a Friday night when I could 
not longer keep the fever down. The streams 
near home had yielded small fry only to the 
worm fishers, for of warm days there had been 
“Don’t know,” said he, as he passed on; which 
astonished me, as the people in those mountains 
are friendly to anglers, but it soon occurred to 
me that while I had referred to a certain brook 
by name, the chances were he knew of no such 
brook from personal experience. It is by no 
means uncommon to meet people who never 
wander further than their nearest supply point. 
Then I knew I was mixed as to roads, and 
stopped until a rosy-cheeked lass and her small 
brother came along. Neither did they enlighten 
THE BROOK DURING LOW WATER. 
From a photograph by Robert S. Lemmon. 
I had never fished on a hotter day and was fast 
wilting. The hazel bushes and the dogwoods 
drooped, too, as if half famished, and only R. S. 
showed no distress. 
The ride back to the railway station was pleas¬ 
ant enough, for it was mainly down hill, and 
the train ride was not uncomfortable; but I 
arrived home dripping wet to hear that the day 
had been officially declared a record-breaker for 
the season. 
In the winter R. S. departed for South 
America. Before he sailed we talked of many 
things: of the ducking season then coming on; 
of snowshoeing in winter; of rides and tramps 
with our cameras. But always his mind re¬ 
verted to the big brown trout in the pool be- 
none, and the few showers that had fallen were 
cold and meager, hence the streams were like 
springs. Still I could not keep from thinking 
of R. S. and the brownie he regarded as his 
own property, but the lien on which, for this 
season at least, he had assigned to me. So I 
rode away at sunrise and in due time began the 
ascent of the mountain road. There are several 
branches from the main road, and carelessly I 
turned into one of these that followed a noisy 
brook which, at the time, I mistook for the main 
stream, it was so flush. Presently the road 
crossed this brook and turned up the mountain 
at a surprising pitch, and just there I met a 
resident. 
“Plow’s the fishing this year?” I asked. 
me, so I turned back and approached a farmer 
working in a field. A farmer by necessity, a 
fisherman by choice, his eye twinkled as he 
pointed westward. 
“Just this side of that blue mountain is the 
creek,” said he; and added, “We have a good 
trout stream right here that you can fish all 
you want to; and it’s a good one, too, though 
the water has been too cold so far to fly-fish.” 
At which I nearly fell over backward, for to 
be invited to fish on private waters is so rare 
in that region that one feels like putting the 
thing down in writing and carrying the slip of 
paper in his hat for fear he may forget it. But 
I hope I thanked him kindly, even though I 
was dazed, and turned back to take a lane cross 
