Oct. 2, 1909 ] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
539 
In Retrospective Mood. 
How cool and refreshing is the air after the 
welcome rain; just the suspicion of a breeze 
comes from the north and chases itself here and 
there in fitful little gusts, gently swaying the 
green leaves on bush and tree and rippling the 
surface of the water of the creek at the favorite 
fishing pool. 
It is an ideal day to loaf away the hours and 
in imagination fill your creel with' those speckled 
trout that lie near the head of the pool where 
that spring bubbles forth and adds its crystal 
water to the creek’s dwindling volume, for it 
has been very dry again this season and springs 
and streams have dried up, and the big spring 
has been severely taxed by the long drain upon 
it, but at last the rain has come and the long 
drouth is broken. 
It is too bright and too early in the day to 
be rewarded with a rise, even if you cast your 
tempting lure directly over the spot where those 
large and wary trout lie hidden. So, selecting 
a cool inviting spot on the bank of the pool be¬ 
neath the tempting shade, the lone fisherman 
sits himself down and lighting his pipe reclines 
upon his grassy couch, and as he watches the 
fragrant smoke curl and twist itself into phan- 
tastic shapes, he drifts along with his thoughts 
which carry him in retrospect back to the days 
of happy boyhood, when as a barefoot boy he 
fished this same pool and landed many a fine 
trout with that old cane pole and heavy line 
with a common bait hook tied at the end. 
He knew each spring hole on the creek, and, 
as the weather grew warmer, he was the first 
to discover just when the trout left the swift 
and tumbling waters of the creek for the cooler 
water of the springs, and when they first “went 
on.” What a catch he would make then, and 
what a trout dinner would be served at home 
after that event! 
Down there around the bend a little way there 
used to be one of the finest springs on the creek; 
the willows grew rank and thick around it and 
their branches made a perfect arch above the 
■ cool and sparkling waters. It was an ideal hid¬ 
ing place for the trout, and it was almost im¬ 
possible to catch one out of there, for you could 
not get through the willows without giving warn¬ 
ing, and in the fall what a natural spawning 
place it made! 
It is gone now. The man who bought the 
farm from the original owner, having nothing 
to busy himself with one winter, cut all the 
willows from around the spring, and to procure 
a little fire wood, cut all the trees between it 
and the creek. When the spring freshets came 
the creek left its banks at that point, filled the 
spring hole up with gravel, gouged great holes 
in his best meadow and left large piles of stone 
and drift and gravel all over a once-beautiful 
and fertile field—a fitting punishment for such 
a despoiler. 
Further up the creek where the two branches 
meet was once a favorite spot. A large and 
stately elm, like a silent sentinel, had from time 
immemorial guarded the confluence of the two 
streams. Sv/ift and turbulent the waters from 
both streams dashed together and formed the 
long deep pool where lived many fine large trout 
that on bright sunshiny days followed around 
with the shade the elm tree cast. 
The elm is gone now. Further up the streams 
the woodman has cut away forests. The natural 
reservoirs which they made for the melting 
snows and rain are gone, and each year the 
spring floods are more severe until at last they 
have undermined the elm, and it now lies in 
GLECK AND JIM WITH THREE FOUR-POUNDERS. 
AT THE MOUTH OF THE ICE CAVE. 
the pool over which it once cast its cooling 
shadow, and each midsummer season sees the 
waters of the creek slowly dwindling. 
Down below the bridge there used to be a 
long tumbling rift, beautiful in its wild unob¬ 
structed flow. It is “shorter and uglier” now. 
The pipe line of the oil company crosses at the 
head of it, and if you stir around very much 
there a thin skum of oil will rise to the surface 
of the water and go floating off down stream, 
and if, perchance, you catch a trout near there 
it will taste of oil when cooked. Not long ago 
one of the pipes burst in the center of the creek 
and several barrels of oil escaped, killing scores 
of trout. 
Away down below the pipe line the creek used 
to take a sharp turn to the left and flow between 
grassy banks lined with alders, poplars and elms. 
It goes straight ahead now until it tumbles in 
the spring and trickles in the summer against 
the rocks at the foot of the mountain between 
which and the bed of the old stream there used 
to be a meadow. It is all cut up now and in¬ 
numerable holes and piles of gravel again attest 
the ignorance of the poor misguided farmer who 
cut the trees and bushes from along the bank of 
the creek, destroying nature’s protection to his 
land. 
Further down the creek can be seen the old 
dam and it still makes a small pond. It used 
to supply power for a cider and grist mill which 
did a thriving business. It does not do much 
now; the dwindling stream does not furnish 
water enough to turn the mill wheel when 
needed. 
They are still cutting the timber from the 
watershed further up the stream, and the far¬ 
mers are doing all they can, unintentionally in 
some cases, to destroy the springs and feeders 
of the creek. Commercialism and ignorance 
versus conservation. They will never learn the 
lesson until it is too late. 
Splash! What was that? The lone fisher¬ 
man sat up and looked interested at once just 
in time to see the circle of ripples grow larger 
and larger where a trout had jumped, and gath¬ 
ering up his rod and strapping on his basket, he 
cautiously approached within casting distance and 
laid his flies gently over the spot. Again and 
again he made the cast. No result. He tried 
another cast of flies. Not even the suspicion 
of a rise. It must be that the conditions are 
not right. He waited a while and tried again 
with the same result. That old fellow must 
have been just exercising, for he refused the 
tempting miller, and so the lone fisherman gave 
it up for the day, and removing his leader and 
carefully winding it around his hat, reeling up 
his line and unjointing his rod, he lighted his 
pipe again, and taking a last look at the pool 
where the big one rose, with empty creel he 
trudged off in the gathering darkness toward 
home, happy and at peace with all the world, 
for he had stolen an afternoon away from the 
cares of business and was better fitted for the 
work of the morrow by reason of it. 
What matters whether he caught any trout 
or not? Imagination had done that for him, 
for had he not lived over again a few happy 
hours of boyhood and reveled in the memory 
of a few big catches he made in the long ago? 
“When Time, who steals our years away. 
Shall steal our pleasures, too. 
The memory of the past will stay, 
And half our joys renew.” 
F. J. D. 
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