484 
FOREST AND S T R E A M 
*4 
WHY SIT WE HERE IDLY WORKING? 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
The following little extract from one of Ouida’s 
novels still has pertinent application : 
‘When all green places have been destroyed in the 
builder’s lust of gain; when all the lands are but 
mountains of bricks and piles of wood and iron; 
when there is no moisture anywhere and no rain 
ever falls; when the sky is a vault of smoke and 
all the rivers reek with poison; when forest and 
stream, the moor and meadow and all the old 
green wayside beauty are things vanished and for¬ 
gotten; when every gentle, timid thing of brake 
and bush, of air and water, has been killed be¬ 
cause it robbed them of a berry or a fruit; when 
the earth is one vast city, whose young children 
behold neither the green of the field nor the blue 
of the sky, and hear no song but the hiss of the 
steam, and know no music but the roar of the 
furnace; when the old sweet silence of the coun¬ 
try side, and the old sweet sounds of waking 
jirds, and the old sweet fall of summer showers, 
ind the grace of a hedge-row bough, and the glow 
of the purple heather, and the note of the cuckoo 
and cushat, and the freedom of waste and of 
woodland and all things dead and remembered 
of no man; then the world, like the Eastern king, 
will perish miserably of famine and of drought, 
with gold in its stiffened hands, and gold in its 
withered lips and gold everywhere; gold that the 
people can neither eat nor drink, gold that cares 
nothing for them, but mocks them horribly; gold 
for which their fathers sold peace, and health, and 
holiness and beauty; gold that is one vast grave. 
Yet there are those who still want more gold. 
They realize not that they will be playing in hard 
luck if they make all the money in the world 
and still can’t eat and digest a good beefsteak. 
For my part, it gives me a shiver, to think of 
that, and I think I shall stop counting my gold 
and go fishing in self-defense. Behold, on the 
meadows lieth the hay and the sun shineth well 
to-day. Why sit we here idly working? 
E. Hough. 
GOOD STORY BROUGHT OUT BY 
PICTURE 
Sterling, Colo., July 9, 1915. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
I noticed my picture in your July issue. It is 
entitled “Above the Dry Pool When the Trout 
Are Carousing.” Seeing this picture arouses 
memories of that trip, and if you will permit me, 
I will recount a few of them. 
The picture was taken by my brother, Dr. S. 
M. Kellogg, of Rocky Ford, Colo., who was then 
upon his wedding trip and visited me in my 
carry upon the North St. Vrain River, at the foot 
of Longs Peak. I camped with my family that 
year five weeks and had many experiences, pleas¬ 
ant and unpleasant. 
The stream was stocked with the rainbow but 
at the abitude of my camp the water was too 
cold for them and I found no trout except the 
native black spotted variety. These are indiffer¬ 
ent to the fly and only at times will they take it 
readily. They always seem ready for worms, 
however, and I was compelled to carry them as 
I never knew when I would be obliged to resort 
to the meat-hook. Worms are not native to the 
Rocky Mountain region and I would have been 
without them had I not met up with a college 
professor from Indiana. He had fished the 
stream seven years previous and had planted 
some ,ve»iuis in a willow thicket beside the stream 
in a springy moist soil. He very kindly led me 
to them and I then for the first time in fifteen 
years disgraced myself by deserting the fly 
for bait. 
There was a stream however (Cabin Creek), 
about four miles from camp where the trout 
took the fly readily and I have walked there and 
back many a time to get an hour or two of de¬ 
cent fly fishing. The stream was a confluent of 
the St. Vrain and one day I thought to fish down 
it and then to walk up the St. Vrain would be 
a splendid outing. I left camp about 4 a. m., 
and upon reaching Cabin Creek I soon was in 
my element and by noon my basket contained 
some twenty-five trout eight to twelve inches 
long. While eating my lunch another fisherman 
came upon me and as it happened he was a resi¬ 
dent and knew the topography of the country. 
When I told him of my plan to fish to the con¬ 
fluence of the two streams and then walk to 
camp, he said, “Young man, you will have plenty 
to do to reach camp without any more fishing, 
for you are by your proposed route fifteen miles 
from your camp,” and he advised me to go back 
the route I had come by. I was stubborn, how¬ 
ever, and wished to make the trip. 
I fished for about an hour and the advice this 
man had given me kept ringing in my ears and 
I decided to unlimber my rod and walk as rap¬ 
idly as possible. I soon came to where the 
stream flowed through a deep canyon with pre¬ 
cipitous sides and there were many cataracts and 
waterfalls—some of them six feet or so in height 
These I was obliged to get down by letting my¬ 
self slide and then catching with my hand to the 
overhanging rock and dropping to the botttom of 
the pool. I became at the first pool wet from 
head to foot and suffered some from the cold. 
After a time I reached the St. Vrain, tired and 
wet, and upon starting up the river came to box 
canyon and was obliged to wade and at times 
pull myself along rock wall by my fingers—the 
water being too deep and swift to wade. 
I arrived at camp about 9 p. m., and found my 
family much worried over my late arrival. I 
had walked twenty-seven miles over mountains, 
wading rivers, and was very tired indeed. 
That was a rough and unsettled country. Deer 
could be found by hard hunting and the old 
postmaster, living about four miles from camp, 
while coming home from a day’s fishing, was 
treed by a large bear and kept up the tree all 
night. The old fellow next day organized a 
hunting party, but never saw the bear again. 
I found while crossing a mountain the foreleg 
and shoulder blade of a fawn, and by examina¬ 
tion of the hoof could see that it had been fresh 
born when killed. It lay under the shelter of a 
cliff of rocks in tall mountain grass. Here the 
mother had given birth and a mountain lion had 
sprung from the ledge and killed the fawn— 
mute tragedy of the wild, and not soon to be 
forgotten. 
5 
Dr. J. H. Kellogg. 
