Sept. 26, 1908.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
485 
A WOMAN ON A TROUT STREAM. 
1 Ostensibly, our drive was a trout-fishing trip, 
and part of the fun certainly was the fishing. 
Not that we caught so many. If we had 
seriously wished to make a score, we might 
better have stayed at home and fished in our 
own haunts, where we knew every pool and 
just how and when to fish it. But it was inter¬ 
esting to explore new brooks, and as we never 
failed to get enough trout for at least one meal 
a day, what more could we wish? And such 
brooks! New England is surely the land of 
beautiful brooks. They are all lovely—the 
meadow brooks, gliding silently beneath the 
deep-tufted grasses, where the trout live in 
shadow even at noonday, and their speckled 
flanks are dark like the pools they lie in; the 
pasture brooks, whose clear water is always 
golden from the yellow sand and pebbles and 
leaves it ripples over, and the trout are silvery 
and pale-spotted; the brooks of the deep 
woods, where the foam of rapids and the spray 
of noisy little waterfalls alternate with the still¬ 
ness of rock-bound, hemlock-shadowed pools. 
All the brooks we followed, whether with good 
luck or with bad, I remember with delight. No, 
all except one. But I do not blame the brook. 
It happened in this way: One Monday morn¬ 
ing, after an abstemious Sunday, the zeal of 
Jonathan brought us forth at dawn—in fact, a 
little before dawn. I had consented, because, 
although my zeal compared to Jonathan’s is as 
a flapping hen compared to a soaring eagle, yet 
I reflected that I should enjoy the sunrise and 
the early bird-songs. We emerged, therefore, 
I in the dusk of the young morning, and I had 
my first reward in a lovely view of meadows 
half-veiled in silvery mist, where the brook 
wound, and upland pastures of pale gray-green 
against ridges of shadowy woods. But I was 
not prepared for the sensation produced by the 
actual plunge into those same meadows. I 
say plunge advisedly. I shiver yet as I recall 
■ the icy chill of that dew-drenched grass. It was 
worse than wading a brook, because there was 
no reaction. Jonathan, however, did not seem 
depressed by it, so I followed his eager steps 
without remark. 
We reached the brook, we put our rods to¬ 
gether, and baited. “Crawl, now.” admonished 
Jonathan; “they’re shy fellows in those open 
pools.” We crawled, dropped in, and waited. 
My teeth were chattering, my lips felt blue, but 
I would not be beaten by a little wet grass. 
After a few casts, Jonathan murmured, “That’s 
funny,” and moved cautiously on to the next 
pool. Then he tried swift water, then little 
rapids. I proceeded in chilly meekness, glad of 
a chance at a little exercise now and then 
when we had to climb around rocks or over a 
stone wall. Occasionally I straightened up and 
gazed out over the meadows—those clammy 
meadows—and up toward the high woods, 
brightening into the deep greens of daylight. 
The east was all rose and primrose, but I 
j found myself unable to think of the sun as an 
aesthetic feature; I longed for its good, honest 
heat. A stove, or a hot soapstone, would have 
done as well. 
After a quarter of a mile of this I ventured 
a remark—“Jonathan, you have often told me 
of the delights of dawn fishing.” Jonathan was 
extricating his line from an alder bush, and did 
not answer. I could not resist adding, “I think 
you said that the trout—bit—at dawn.” Con¬ 
tinued silence warned me that I had said 
' enough, and I tactfully changed the subject: 
“What I am sorry for is the birds’ nests up in 
those fields. How do the eggs ever hatch—in 
ice-water! And how do the strawberries ever 
ripen, in cold storage every night—ugh! Let’s 
go back and get some hot coffee and go to 
bed.”—Elisabeth Woodbridge in the Outlook. 
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