Where Barefoot Boys Look for 
Trout.—1. 
After dark one May evening the “Camp 
Don’t Hurry” crowd was loafing about the 
wood fire in a Catskill mountain fisherman’s 
tavern. The incoming train from New York 
had unloaded a half-dozen neat, brisk appearing 
young men, each carrying a full equipment of 
trout tackle. Added to those already in the 
room, the newcomer.s made perhaps a score of 
men—a score of men who united in one hope 
and prayer. Good weather! Good luck! 
Probably the young anglers had found a sup¬ 
per elsewhere in their travels; at any rate they 
had no time to spend eating, nor did they go 
to the rooms assigned to them. Dumping their 
luggage into a pile in the corner, they besieged 
the portly and good-humored proprietor with 
questions concerning the state of the water, the 
flight of flies, and the rising of the trout. 
• Now that six more rooms were let, this 
jovial character, who could and did fish some 
himself, served from his regular stock an ample 
supply of encouraging answers. Thus assured, 
the New Yorkers mingled themselves among 
the others wherever chairs could be found and 
began to add their quota of smoke to the al¬ 
ready foggy atmosphere. 
When the original occupants of the place had 
sized up the new arrivals to their own satisfac¬ 
tion. they went on with the interrupted stories, 
adding vigor commensurate with an increased 
and attentive audience. The younger men told 
marvelous tales of marvelous catches at other 
times and in Other places. 
They smoked fast as they did this and hitched 
forward a little on their chairs. One uncon¬ 
sciously rolled and lighted a cigarette as he 
spun his yarn. Then they fell to discussing why 
the fishing had not been particularly good that 
day. Some thought the trout were in the rifts, 
while others were as sure that they were in the 
bottom of the pools. Nearly all agreed that 
there was something the matter with both the 
water and the weather. And one declared that 
the last year’s drouth must have sent the fish 
to “the sandhills.” 
The nervous, hatchet-faced man was sure the 
trick all turned on the fly, and he hooked his 
faith to a silver doctor. The man with the big 
mustache wanted plenty of color on his lure. 
The tall, wiry-looking chap believed you must 
wade and cast up stream, but his fat, short¬ 
legged neighbor preferred to waddle down the 
creek. 
As soon as they could find entering wedges, 
the young men from New York pried politely 
into the conversation and began gently to vent 
their effervescent hope and enthusiasm. Each 
according to his kind mixed and mingled in the 
discussion until at the end of an hour they were 
pouring forth, some slowly, some swiftly, their 
individual theories about how to catch trout. 
These theories had been formulated, added to, 
and modified accordingly as they read, dreamed 
or visited with friends during the six cold 
months just passed. Of course there was some 
little remnant of knowledge left over from last 
year’s unfortunate experience when one had 
struck too high water, while another had struck 
a cold east wind and all had struck something 
besides good luck. But last year was history, 
and since that time they had learned much more 
about the art and were prepared to do wonder¬ 
ful things on the morrow. Not that they said 
it! They simply looked it and acted it; but in 
case anything should go amiss with their cock¬ 
sure plans, there was something still in re¬ 
serve. Each one had up his mental sleeve a 
fly, which he knew from the say-so of a wonder¬ 
ful fisherman, never failed, or a particular way 
of casting which would bring even a mummy 
trout to the surface. These last absolutely cer¬ 
tain devices they had not mentioned even to 
one another, cherishing them as positive points 
of percentage which would enable their owners 
to modestly and unconcernedly drop heavy 
baskets to-morrow evening. 
Eortified by their confidence in these unex¬ 
posed resources, the New Yorkers finally came 
to talk as wisely as the others in the room. 
One discoursed of former experiences in Maine. 
His mate went him one better by telling of 
trips in Nova Scotia. And so on until, abandon¬ 
ing all reserve, the longest legged visitor threw 
his heel upon the table, and leaning back with 
his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, por¬ 
trayed in graphic words the marvels of the 
Grand Discharge. 
While the chorus of younger enthusiasts had 
been rapidly mounting the crescendo scale to a 
high point of exhilaration and hope, two or 
three old-timers sat quietly looking on. They 
were not secretly poking fun at the boys, but 
were just simply satisfied in the customary dig¬ 
nity and superiority of old-timers. It is only 
another phase of childish delight, and is quite 
as enjoyable as the amateur’s enthusiasm. The 
change between the boy growing up hill and the 
boy growing down hill is almost instantaneous, 
and the steady-going period of unboastful man¬ 
hood is largely a matter of the imagination. 
Young and old, it is quite a little like a cage 
of monkeys at the zoo. One will swing on the 
trapeze and hang by his tail, while another sits 
solemnly on the floor and scratches himself. 
By and by the solemn old monkey will sud¬ 
denly come to life and show what he can do at 
scampering bottom side up under the roof of 
the cage. And by and by the solemn old-timer 
will break loose and tell the most outrageous 
fish story of the whole evening. 
When the younger and more inexperienced 
fishermen at the tavern had pumped their little 
wells of knowledge dry, and drawn to a danger- 
out extent upon their imaginations, they peace¬ 
fully subsided under the flood of anecdotes 
which the old-timers poured forth with the ease 
of a submissive conscience. 
In the company was a rather slight man 
whose prematurely gray hair and delicate hands 
bespoke long years in a counting-house. His 
face did not seem quite suited to be framed in 
smoke, but he listened with childish eagerness. 
There was a touch of wistfulness in his eyes 
when he watched rugged Old Billy shaking 
with laughter at the stories, and he hitched his 
chair a little closer as that veteran spun his 
share of the yarns. Late in the evening when 
a general pause occurred, the gray little man 
ventured to speak, after looking about to see 
that no one else wanted the chance. His re¬ 
marks were addressed to Billy and evidently 
intended for his ears alone. 
“Would you mind looking them over?” he 
asked, handing out his fly-book, “and tell me 
which are the best to use? Trout fishing is 
new to me, and I imagine I do not select the 
right flies.” 
“Did you have any luck to-day?” Billy in¬ 
quired, as he opened the book and saw that 
the dryers were moist. 
“No, I only caught a couple of those little 
fish that have red fins. There must be some¬ 
thing about it which I do not understand. Per¬ 
haps it is not strange, for until the past year 
or two my time has been very closely taken in 
the city.” 
“Never had much experience then at rough¬ 
ing it, did you?” Billy asked, still turning the 
leaves. 
“I know very little about nature,” the 
stranger went on. “Recently I have spent much 
time in the parks, but of course that is only 
doll-house nature. The grass, the shrubs, and 
the squirrels are all tame.” 
“I don’t know about everything being so 
tame there!” Billy broke in. “The boys I’ve 
seen in Central Park are about the wildest little 
Indians I ever came up with.” 
“That is true,” assented the other, “but I en¬ 
joy watching their pranks, and often feel as. 
though I should like to join them. Something 
I saw in the park,” he continued, changing the 
subject, “led me to attempt trout fishing. I be¬ 
came so interested watching the casting when 
the Anglers’ Club was holding a contest that I 
bought an outfit for myself. I have practiced 
on ponds and vacant lots until I can handle a 
fly quite easily, but what I want now is to 
actually catch a trout on one. I fairly envied 
a barefooted lad whom I met to-day. I had 
been whipping a pool for some time, and this 
boy came down from a small house that stood 
near. His rod was clumsy and had been 
mended several times, but he caught a trout in 
a little place where I had not thought to cast. 
I asked him what fly he was using and he 
showed it to me. It had been like that once,” 
and the narrator pointed to a Beaverkill, “but 
the wings were nearly all gone and the body 
hung in shreds. I gave him a couple from my book 
and he said he would stay and show me where 
to fish, if it wasn’t that he had to be starting 
for school. He offered to go with me Saturday 
morning after he gets his work done, so I am 
hoping it will be a good day and he will not 
fail me.” 
“You needn’t be much afraid of his disap¬ 
pointing you,” Billy observed. “You have good 
