A Day Off. 
Up in the Highlands of the Hudson, in that 
beautiful region which the State, through the 
kindness of Mrs. Mary A. Harriman, will so 
wisely set aside for “the free use of the people 
forever,” is as pretty a little trout stream as 
fishermen could desire. Rising away back 
among the hills in a little woods-girt lake, it 
takes its rapid way riverward down a narrow, 
winding valley, receiving numerous contribu¬ 
tions from springs and brooklets along the way 
until, some ten miles or so from its source, it 
has grown to quite respectable proportions and 
deepens into broad, still reaches, as if sobered 
by the big river it is about to join. 
For years the Kid and the Engineer have 
fished this stream at least once every season, 
and many are the happy memories connected 
with it, and many the trout they have rescued 
from its rocky pools and dancing riffles. When 
office work grows irksome and “the red gods 
make their medicine again,” it is very pleasant 
to slip up there on one of those rare, warm 
days in “cherry-blossom week,” when wind and 
water are just right, and in the quiet of the 
hills forget the noisy bustle of the great city so 
near at hand. 
Last spring it seemed as if good fishing 
weather never would come, and when at last the 
chill of the early season had given way to the 
warmer days of June, arrangements were made 
for the first trip of the season, the tackle re¬ 
ceived its final overhauling, and everything was 
prepared for a gray-dawn start. 
The morning bird-chorus was in full swing 
as the Kid stole quietly into the Engineer’s 
room, and a few minutes later the two crept 
kitchenward down the back stairs to avoid dis¬ 
turbing the rest of the family. Breakfast was 
soon cooked and eaten, for the Engineer is a 
wonder at getting a meal in a hurry, and the 
packing up of a substantial lunch was the work 
of but a few minutes more. The day (whisper 
it) was Sunday, and long before the church¬ 
goers were awake the fishermen were aboard 
the train, their wheels safely stowed in the 
baggage car, and were rapidly nearing the little 
station from which a ride of a few miles would 
bring them to the stream. 
The usual crowd of idlers was on hand to see 
that the train got in and out safely, and they 
stared with some curiosity at the two men 
dressed in old bicycle suits who were evidently 
going fishing and yet carried no heavy rubber 
boots or other apparatus to keep them dry. 
The necessary formalities with the baggageman 
were quickly finished and the fishermen 
mounted their wheels, turning into the road 
which leads back from the river. For several 
miles this road follows the valley of the stream, 
then turns to the westward and loses itself 
“over the hills and far away,” where the setting 
sun casts long and dusty shadows from every 
rounded peak and shoulder of the mountains. 
But before that westward turn is reached an old 
wood-road branches off to the right, and up 
this the two made their way for a mile or so 
beside the stream till the Engineer,, who was 
ahead, slid from his saddle with a satisfied. 
“Well, I guess here’s where we stop. Up there 
in that patch of laurel looks like a good place 
to leave the wheels, and Em anxious to see if 
that big old brown trout I lost here in the gorge 
last year is still on the job.’ So the bicycles 
better than a horse for this sort of work, be¬ 
cause they will stand without hitching and don’t 
have to be fed—were hidden in the bushes, 
rods were set up, and while the Kid went up 
stream to begin fishing at an agreed place, the 
Engineer scrambled down the rocky side of the 
gorge to interview the big brown. 
The brook at this point tumbles down a nar¬ 
row ravine some three hundred yards in 
length, filled with big water-worn boulders in 
every conceivable position and curious ledge 
formations which serve to make the course of 
the stream a succession of noisy water falls 
alternating with deep, quiet pools. In one of 
these latter, where he had ample room to grow 
and wax fat, the “old socker” had made his 
home the previous season and refused to even 
look at any flies except the closest of exact 
imitations. 
Just below this chosen pool the Engineer 
entered the stream with the intention of taking 
up a position near the foot of the falls whence 
he could reach the pool with ease, and at the 
same time remain hidden himself. The plan 
was well laid, but alas! as the flies touched the 
water for the first time there was a swirl off to 
one side and the glassy surface was broken by 
a flying wake which ended abruptly in the cool 
shelter of a great rock lying in the deepest part 
of the pool. That ended it. That headlong 
rush evidently belonged to a big and badly 
frightened trout which apparently did not care 
for a closer acquaintanceship, so, with a few 
heartfelt words about the shyness of trout in 
general and this one in particular, the Engineer 
pushed on up stream, picking up a couple of 
fair sized native fish on the way and soon com¬ 
ing upon the Kid, who was just slipping his 
net under a pretty half-pounder. His creel held 
three other smaller fish, and w r ith the best part 
of the day still before them, the two men 
worked contentedly ahead, taking turns at the 
good water and chaffing each other good- 
naturedly when a strike was missed or a hooked 
fish lost. In time they reached a broad, deep 
pool in a bushy little meadow, a group of lofty 
sycamores on the bank shadowing the water at 
the further side. “There you are, Kid; that 
looks trouty. Let’s see you get out there and 
do your prettiest.” 
The Kid at the time was standing on a big 
submerged rock which sloped gradually toward 
the deepest water, and as he cautiously edged 
out along it to get more room for the back cast, 
his feet began to slide. Oh, the helplessness of 
that feeling! Nothing to catch hold of. nothing 
to do but slide, with the water getting deeper 
and deeper and sending little shivers up his 
back as it reached hitherto dry portions of his 
anatomy. In his struggles to keep a reasonably 
perpendicular position, he got turned around, 
and there on the bank, fairly doubled over in an 
ecstacy of delight, beheld the Engineer, who 
was shouting what sounded suspiciously like» 
“Do your prettiest, now, do your prettiest.” 
Then the rock took a sudden steeper pitch, and 
with one last, despairing lunge the now thor¬ 
oughly aroused fisherman proceeded to sit down 
—in about three feet of water. Fortunately the 
noonday sun was warm, even without the aid 
of certain hastily selected words which floated 
upward from the vicinity of the brook, and 
when, with his companion’s help, the Kid had 
detached the tangle of leader and flies from the 
various parts of his clothing, where they had 
taken refuge during the mixup, a comfortable 
spot for lunch was found close by a tiny spring 
which bubbled out from among the roots of a 
giant beech. A little fire of dry twigs added its 
quota to the cheerfulness of the meal, and aftei 
the last sandwich had gone the way of all good 
things, the pipes came out and a pleasant houi 
was spent in just lying around doing nothing. 
Toward two o’clock a puffy breeze sprang up 
from the west and at the Kid’s suggestion fish¬ 
ing was resumed. At a bend in the stream a 
short distance above they met a native fisher¬ 
man, a country boy of the lean and lanky type 
equipped with the traditional birch pole and 
tin can half filled with lusty garden hackles. 
After the usual mutual questions regarding luck 
the young fellow asked if they had ever fished 
the Clearwater, one of the. largest tributaries 
of the main stream, which it enters through a 
dark and heavily wooded glen. Receiving a 
negative reply, he launched into a graphic de¬ 
scription of the great numbers of trout there, 
their wild scrambles to grab the hook, and the 
phenomenal baskets which had been made in 
years gone by. “But say,” he continued, I 
don’t like to go ’way up there in the wilderness - 
all alone. You see it’s pretty far from the road, 
and a feller might easy break his leg or some¬ 
thing, and then where’d he be? An’ then there s 
piles of snakes; watersnakes an’ puff-adders 
an’ blacksnakes an’ rattlers an’ copperheads 
an 
L- 
“Say ” drawled the Kid, “ever notice any sea 
serpents up there, big, green chaps w.th p.nk 
rings round ’em, and ears like a rabbits. 
“No but I know a feller down to the village, 
an’ he’says he-but the city men waited to 
hear no more, an<j with mental vows to some¬ 
time explore that wonderful region of fish and 
perils continued on their way, the baskets grow¬ 
ing steadily heavier, for the trout were rising 
well that day to a hatch of little may-flies, and 
the Kid’s book contained, a number of imita¬ 
tions of the real article which were good enough 
to fool a very respectable number of fish. 
Ere long they reached a pool of which both 
had often thought during the cold and stormy 
days of winter, and seating themselves on a 
moss-covered log beside it, feasted their eyes 
on the beauty of their surroundings./ The 
water, slipping over a great ledge worn smooth 
