Miss Jeannette’s Prize. 
From the forest bordered shores of Oleout 
Rapids, over which the bald granite twin peaks 
kept ceaseless guard, came reports of a trout 
far larger than any known to have been taken 
in the picturesque Unadilla in many a year. 
From one source and another reports came 
straggling in until the inhabitants of Spruce 
Flats, a settlement on the forks of the river 
some miles below the rapids, began to believe 
there might be truth in the tale. With the ad¬ 
vance of summer there followed stories of play¬ 
ful leaps at tempting flies, which had exposed 
his size to astonished anglers' until the matter 
became of more than passing interest to a 
coterie of veteran fishermen wont to hang about 
Ordway’s tavern. Apparently the fish had es¬ 
tablished itself permanently in an expanse of 
the river that had yielded many a prize to such 
skilled veterans as the Dollard boys and Injun 
Joe, yet time and time again they sought the 
pool at dawn and fished the most promising 
places with skill until- nightfall, when they 
threaded their way down the river, disappointed 
but not disheartened, for they never failed to 
land a goodly catch, although none that ap¬ 
proached in size the much discussed inhabi¬ 
tant. Others no less skilled spent hours try¬ 
ing to tempt the mysterious monster to strike 
and grew to look upon the tale with suspicion. 
The big fish was discussed at the postoffice 
one June night and Charley Hutton, a brawny 
lumberjack who passed most of the summer 
days fishing about the village or wandering aim¬ 
lessly over the hills, advanced the theory that 
the trout was a hoary old inhabitant of a moun¬ 
tain brook who had drifted with spring freshets 
to its present haunts. 
Injun Joe scoffed the idea, insisting that the 
story had been woven into its present form by 
a certain so-called sportsman who was known to 
resort to bait-casting when flies failed to tempt. 
“Maybe I am a bait-caster,” retorted Charley, 
“but I never trapped partridges.” 
Injun Joe’s face flushed. In his younger days 
he had secured many fine grouse by placing 
snares in the woods about his cabin. 
“Wal,” sagely remarked Uncle Aaron Moore, 
the dean of local fishermen, in an audible whis¬ 
per, “that air Joe is ’bout the best bite-an’-gouge 
fighter I ever knowed, an’ as fer Charley Hut¬ 
ton, he can take off most anybody's shirt an’ 
cord it up. Both on ’em has toted a chip on 
their shoulders fer a considerable spell now, so 
I guess this fish fuss will terminate in the road.” 
His comrades, sharing his opinion, nodded 
their heads in delight at the prospect of a fight 
and quietly edged toward the door, but before 
further words could be uttered footsteps sound¬ 
ed on the gravel outside and Father Gavett’s 
rotund face appeared in the doorway. 
“Well, well! Not at Ordway’s to-night. I 
am indeed lucky to find such a gathering of 
congenial spirits,” he cried jovially, tossing his 
hat on the counter and seating himself on an 
inverted box. 
In sharp contrast to the tall, gaunt-faced, 
broad-shouldered woodsmen. Father Gavett was 
short and thick set. His ruddy face, surmounted 
by a wreath of gray about the temples and ears, 
sparkled with the brightness of health, and his 
graceful, alert carriage stamped him a man of 
undaunted courage and refinement, into whom 
the strength of the hills had gone. 
“Now a bit of tobacco,” he laughed, drawing 
a pipe from an inner pocket; 'T always enjoy 
my pipe best when I have a story to relate.” 
Instantly a hush fell over the room. The 
postmaster came from behind the official case 
with its score of dingy letter boxes, and care¬ 
fully shoving Father Gavett’s hat and the 
grocery scales to one side, sprawled full length 
on the counter. Father Gavett lighted his pipe 
and settling back on his seat crossed his legs. 
“I went to Shattock’s Mill yesterday for the 
purpose of uniting Louie Lammeraux and Ton- 
nette LaQuoix in holy wedlock,” he said. “The 
wedding occurred at half-past eight last night, 
so owing to the lateness of the hour, I was glad 
to avail myself of Mr. Shattock’s kind invitation 
to be his guest during my sta}'. The guests, 
headed by old Tom Spencer, the fiddler, escorted 
the couple to their new home, a white four-room 
cottage fronting the river, where the wedding 
dance was inaugurated and the hilarity extended 
far into the night. Small wonder the sun was 
three hours high when I awoke and prepared 
to start down the river. 
“On the river the heat increased as the morn¬ 
ing advanced, and opposite Putter Creek I drove 
my canoe across the Unadilla, intending to land 
and lounge until sunset in the shade of a clump 
of pines. Close to the shore my canoe scraped 
over a submerged rock, tearing a hole in the 
bow, and the water tumbling through the open¬ 
ing in a torrent I made a jump for a log jutting 
from a pile of driftwood, but it settled slowly 
and rolled over, throwing me backward into 
the water before I could gain a secure footing. 
Dripping wet, I crawled up the bank just as 
Warren Dix, the young man who spends his 
vacations camping along the Unadilla, came glid¬ 
ing down Putter Creek. Seeing my predica¬ 
ment, he otfered to bring me to Spruce Flats. 
While we were wringing the water from my 
garments, the great-grandfather of all trout 
leaped from the river close to the shore some 
distance above where Oleout Rapids divide. 
“ ‘What a trout I’ I exclaimed in amazement. 
Almost immediately he leaped again and be¬ 
fore the ripples had disappeared he made an¬ 
other beautiful, curving vault through the air. 
Just then we caught the glint of a rod thrust 
from behind a clump of bushes nearly opposite 
the spot and a yellow hackle settled on the sur¬ 
face. Instantly the line became taut, the rod 
curved and Jack Ordway’s pretty daughter Jean¬ 
nette stepped into view. 
“In a wild rush the trout gained the current 
and went tearing down stream, taking yard after 
yard of line. Knowing well that to check the 
rush too soon meant the snapping of the leader 
or tip, Jeannette bounded along shore, holding 
the rod high overhead, stumbling over rocks, 
wading knee deep in the water, but keeping her 
feet and contesting every inch until the fish 
paused to sulk in a pot hole. 
“ ‘Let him sulk,’ yelled Dix, jumping in his 
canoe, while I gave it a powerful shove and Dix 
brought it alongside. Jeannette had barely time 
to step in before the trout took a notion to 
gain the east branch of the rapids, down which 
the waters pour in silence, to surge and boil 
against a narrow hog’s back separating the safe 
channel from the impassable west branch until 
the two unite and dash over a long rift into a 
wide backwater below. 
“For a hundred yards the big trout main¬ 
tained his lead and then as he made a sidelong 
skittering leap the girl skillfully headed him up 
stream and Dix sent the canoe plowing after 
just fast enough to allow her to retrieve some 
of the lost line. Twice in succession the fish 
leaped and the boat’s momentum barely fur¬ 
nished sufficient slack to meet the added strain; 
then he settled down to a series of sharp, wild 
dashes near the bottom. All that could be done 
was to keep a taut line and wait an opportunity 
to gain smoother water. Presently with a quick 
turn the trout dragged the line under the canoe, 
yet the hook held. Then, aided by the current, 
he sped in the direction of the rapids, but halted 
in a deep spring hole and commenced circling. 
The supreme moment was at hand and by a 
half dozen well timed lifts Jeannette brought 
the fish to the surface, allowing him to drop 
back into the ready landing net. Almost be¬ 
fore I realized what was taking place there was 
a gleam of silver, a splash and the canoe was 
speeding for safety, bearing the record trout of 
the Unadilla.” 
“Wal, by gum,” grunted Uncle Aaron Moore, 
fumbling in his pocket for a match; “I guess 
that comes dog gone near settling all these fish 
controversities we’ve been having in Spruce 
Flats.” C. S. Shafer. 
A Deep-Sea Ballad. 
Sea urchins have a jolly time. 
They sing Nep-tunes all day. 
They play upon the trumpet-fish 
And feed sea-cows with hay. 
They make octopusses mew 
By pulling on their tails; 
And then, when mother slaps them, they 
Give vent to doleful whales. 
They watch the starfish act in plays. 
And clap their clammy hands; 
The mussels on their brawny arms 
Stand out like iron bands. 
At night, when pallid moonfish gleam. 
In sleep they close their eyes; 
And when the morning comes they all 
Can watch the sunfish rise. 
If they swear like the devil-fish. 
In picker’ll they’ll burn; 
But if they learn tp school themselves. 
To angel-fish they’ll turn. 
—The Bohemian. 
