FOREST AND STREAM 
937 
while the little minnows were there to be chased. 
I spotted my particular choice early in the day. 
He lay in a good deep pool, comparatively free 
from brush and snags and at intervals of three, 
five, or sometimes fifteen minutes, would make 
a swirl or series of swirls that assured that he 
was a three-pounder at least. But the swirls 
were never for the cast of flies, although placed 
sometimes just in front,of his nose, and although 
I tried every one I had, wet and dry, and even 
concocted a long, trailing comet out of a wild 
duck’s feather. 
A dozen times I gave him up in disgust before 
noon, and a dozen more came back and began 
casting for him all over again. I moved up 
and down stream and found that my uncle and 
cousin were having similar experiences. At last 
a few fish began to show interest in a combina¬ 
tion of brown hackle and black gnat, and I todk 
at one cast a brace that weighed a pound apiece. 
But the big “steamboats,” as the natives called 
them, gave us the go-by. My guide thought I 
was inclined to change flies too much. 
“When ye’ve got a combination that has 
ketched fish fer ye,” he remarked mildly, “why’n 
time don’t ye stick to it?” 
“But they aren’t looking at anything,” I re¬ 
plied, “and anyhow, it’s fun experimenting. I 
might strike something that would tickle them.” 
This while I was looping on a Junebug contrap¬ 
tion with a cork body which probably made the 
trout laugh and which did make the guide smile. 
“Waal, some likes to change flies, an’ then, 
some likes to ketch fish,” was his crushing re¬ 
joinder, and I, abashed, soon went back to black 
and brown. 
After lunch and a nap, for we had been up at 
four to try the Big Magalloway while the mists 
of early morning still lay on its surface, we went 
back, and about sundown they all began again, 
big and little, but still nothing doing with flies 
as yet. As it got darker, however, my tail fly, 
which was a good-sized Parmachenee Belle, evi¬ 
dently began to interest them, especially when 
twitched in a certain manner under water, and 
also my dropper, the old faithful black gnat. I 
had been advised that towards evening the trout 
might feel differently on the fly question and 
also that a good sized wet fly properly manipu¬ 
lated would get better results than the best imi¬ 
tation of the natural insect fished dry. After 
several rises in which the fish missed the hook 
completely, and, though apparently more than 
anxious, never came back, I landed a 24-ounce 
trout, but that seemed to be my limit. 
By this time all up and down the stream the 
fireworks were on. Big fellows and little were 
rising and splashing, although apparently for 
shiners and not for insects. I was loth to give 
up, and yet more time spent there seemed 
wasted. 
Our big friend of the morning was not so 
much in evidence, usually rising when we were 
well away from him, and we judged it was he by 
sound rather than sight. Finally we turned and 
headed for camp. As we were just past his 
apartment there was one final derisive plunge. 
My guide (and by the way, if there were more 
like him more men would go into the woods) 
swung the canoe around quickly. 
“Sling it to him just once more,” he said. 
The tail fly must have dropped pretty near 
him, for the instant after it sank from sight 1 
thought I was snagged. But then came that long 
surging rush which I had so frequently heard 
described and dreamed so often of feeling—the 
rush which no small fish, even if hooked foul, 
can make. My Leonard rod, inherited from a 
grandfather who was first instructor in fly cast¬ 
ing bent—well, I was going to use the stereo¬ 
typed phrase “double,” but it didn’t. 1 had seen 
big fish caught if I hadn’t caught them myself, 
and I never saw a rod bend double yet; but it 
bent, all right, and it was some bend, the tip 
never more than just clearing the water, for 
the cast had been a short one. I settled myself, 
as well as excitement would let me, for the 
scrap. 
“That’s the baby ye’ve been a-lookin’ for,” was 
my boatman’s first remark. His second was, 
“That’d be a tough one to lose,” and called forth 
from me an anguished “Don’t.” His third, 
spoken it seemed to me hours afterward, was 
what Sherman said war is. 
“What’s the matter?” 
“There’s a hole in this net and I can’t tie it 
up. But I don’t think one this size’ll go through. 
(The pound and a half fish had, and we were 
finally compelled to hoist him in by hand.) But 
they’s two big flies all snarled up in the meshes 
(O, my fatal propensity for changing flies) an’ 
I can’t git ’em out.” 
Another agonizing wait, during which a thump¬ 
ing noise came from behind me. 
“I’m hackin’ the shanks through with my hunt¬ 
in’ knife,” came his voice, and, a moment later: 
“S’pose ye hoist him up and let’s get a look 
at him. He seems to be right tuckered an’ I got 
this net as ready as the gol-dummed thing will 
get.” 
On the application of a moderate tension he 
came to the top. I had been holding him pretty 
lightly while the repairs were going forward. Oh, 
well, what’s the use? I could never tell how he 
appeared to me on the surface of that dark 
water, when I saw, almost within arm’s length, 
what I had looked for so long. Those who have 
had the experience of a first big fish know it 
without telling, and others might think me still 
a little delirious. I was glad, though, I didn’t 
have to handle rod and net at the same time. 
Ezra, the guide, slipped the net under him (I 
was in no condition to lead the fish to it) and 
ran his left hand down the handle to get the 
proper leverage, and the minute that net was 
past the gunwale the fish was through the en¬ 
tirely inadequate hole. Ezra grabbed him, how¬ 
ever, and after he had hit him a half dozen times 
across the snout with the knife handle, he hit 
him fourteen more at my urgent request. The 
Parmachenee Belle was sunken deep into his 
cheek. He had missed it with his jaws and, 
going towards it evidently at an acute slant, it 
had snagged him just back of their angle on 
the outside. I had had a deadly hold on him, 
one that probably saved him for me, as it kept 
him milling around and around in decreasing 
circles and just missing the brush at the sides 
of the pool, but I hadn’t known that, of course. 
“I’m satisfied. How much will he weigh?” I 
said with a sigh. 
“ 0 , ’baout three an’ a half. He’s a good traout, 
all right,” was the unemotional response. 
“Was I as nutty when I had him on as you 
thought I’d be?” I proudly asked. Ezra had 
guided me before and knew how anxious I was 
for a fish even smaller than this. I believed I 
had remarked on the fact. Yes, I remember now, 
I told him I lived for that alone, or some other 
moderate sentiment of the sort. 
“Waal, ye had the jim-jams purty bad fer 
a minute or two right after ye hooked him, but 
after that ye didn’t do so bad.” 
We paddled along. I lost in blissful silence. 
Then, from Ezra: 
“Why don’t ye weigh him?” 
I started to say I couldn’t, then recollected I 
had my fish scales in the pocket of the mackinaw 
on which I was sitting. I hooked them in his 
mouth and lit a match. 
“Four!” I breathed. 
“Yep,” was the reply. “I thought he would, 
but I wanted ye to be sort o’ surprised.” 
Next day, on larger and accurate scales at Wil¬ 
son’s Mills, he turned four even, so that he must 
have been a shade over when caught. But four 
is a nice round number and prevents the tempta¬ 
tion to add an ounce or two as time rolls by. 
By the morning of the second day following, 
after a return trip to our starting point and a 
good many miles on the Grand Trunk railroad, 
I got him to the taxidermist establishment of 
Nash, of Norway, Maine. He was a perfectly 
formed and colored male trout, bright orange 
in belly and scarlet in fins, and, mounted in 
“mezzo” style in just the proper curve, on a 
placque of curly birch, the nearest in shade to 
the sherry-colored waters in which he had lived, 
I have hung him on my study wall, as my better 
half says, “So you won’t study.” 
“Mister,” said a man from Vermont who had 
arrived in camp the evening of the killing, when 
I had come in late, tired, hungry and happy in 
the way only fishermen can be happy, “that is 
certainly a good trout. May I ask where you 
caught him?” I told him. 
“How long did you fish for him?” 
“Fifteen years.” 
“Well, I guess you earned him.” Perhaps I 
did. Anyhow, I appreciated him. 
Am I still satisfied? Yes. Only I think I’ll go 
back next summer and try for a five pounder. 
