April 22, 1911.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
619 
plied the brakes.” My right , hand worked 
desperately and the reel fairly hummed as I en¬ 
deavored to take up the slack he was crowding 
toward me in his headlong dash upstream again. 
On this race depended the outcome of the bat¬ 
tle, and I redoubled my efforts toward “keeping 
the track clear.” He saw me and once more 
turned aside, but I had him close in and easily 
held him by the spring of the rod. Like a thing 
of life, it bent and turned, recording each move 
and dart of the fish by the vibrations which 
coursed down its length to my sensitive wrist. 
Slowly the little warrior tired and I reeled him 
nearer and nearer the dancing tip. A final dash 
compelled me to surrender line already gained, 
but I soon recovered my loss and had him al¬ 
most at hand. I even had a hasty glimpse of 
his flashing form as he darted aside, and saw 
that he was indeed a beauty. The tightened line 
bush and with dipping tail, called, “Pewit: 
phoebe, phoebe, phoebe.” The tinkle of a far 
off cowbell was borne to my ears on the lazy 
springtime air, and somehow I seemed unmind¬ 
ful as to whether I caught more fish or not. 
Everything was just as it should be, and I 
smoked and dreamed and fished. 
In a long smooth stretch of water I decided 
to try a number of casts in the hope of pro¬ 
voking another rise, but whipped this bit of 
stream until my wrist was tired, to no avail. 
There were trout there, and unwilling to lose 
the opportunity. I changed the fly for a darker 
one and again cast patiently, but finally decided 
that they were not rising, so I rather reluctant¬ 
ly substituted the humble worm for the artistic 
fly, and still hopeful of that dark, peaceful look¬ 
ing bit of water, dropped the wriggling bait 
into its placid depths, convinced that a big one 
rushed headlong into a mass of drift. Flounder¬ 
ing clumsily forward to save the day, I stepped 
into water to my armpits and sensed the full 
delights of a cold morning plunge, so enthusi¬ 
astically advocated by physical culturists. Heed¬ 
less of the wetting, I splashed to the brush pile 
to recover snarled line and hook. The trout 
had made good his escape. Muttering some¬ 
thing about disliking quiet water wherein only 
small ones lie, I scrambled dejectedly ashore 
to empty boots and wring clothes. Like the 
ancient Romans, I had taken my lunch to the 
bath, but with far sadder results. The soaked 
paper was peeled from the mushy mass, while 
the brook laughed in silvery tones at my dis¬ 
comfiture, and an impudent blue jay secure in 
a high evergreen, joined in heartily. Ashamed 
of my fleeting grouch, and forcing my feet into 
the soggy boots, I wrapped the moist but no 
A LONG, SMOOTH STRETCH OF WATER. 
was cutting narrowing circles through the water was lurking within reach. As I drew in for less appetizing lunch in its soaked covering, 
just beyond reach of the hand net. A sudden a final cast before traveling on, there was a and calling good-naturedly to the jay, moved on. 
scoop beneath the surface and I had him in the splash, the rod dipped almost to the water, and Several likely pools were successfully fished 
net - the fight was on. and the creel began to drag on my shoulder. 
Highly elated I waded ashore, scrambled over A splendid place to play him that, more like The wetting was forgotten in the excitement of 
a log and sat on a mossy bank to inspect and bass fishing. The deep, quiet water allowed the sport, and not until I reached for my to- 
admire my trout. Just about ten inches long; full scope for his skillful maneuvers. Across, bacco pouch did the awful possibility of a 
cold, plump and radiant, he turned and twisted down, upstream he fought the rod. Twice he smokeless afternoon confront me. The clammy 
about on the ground as though loth even now snagged me despite my best efforts toward buckskin bag sealed the doom of the pipe for 
to abandon the gallant fight so nobly begun. keeping him clear, and each time I gave up the present, but the sun was high overhead and 
His struggles I mercifully ended, and gathering hope—and my resolution about swearing. Both it was time to look about for a suitable lunch 
a handful of wet moss, folded it carefully about times I laboriously cleared him, however, and site. It must be sunny and well sheltered from 
the prize and placed him lovingly in the creel— setting my teeth, determined to keep him in the breeze, for there was to he considerable dry- 
Lo. 1, the first of the year. deep water till I had him thoroughly subdued. ing out before proceeding with the afternoon 
Lighting my pipe, I again entered the stream. Unable to get a peep at him, still I believed end of the sport. A sort of natural, grass- 
wading cautiously along the picturesque way, him to be a good one, and cold shivers ran up grown meadow crowded the forest back from 
casting carefully into each quiet spot or pool, and down my back at thought of his escape the brook for a hundred yards along its course 
under shelving rocks and near every logjam when the line slackened. Not a bit of it! He and shimmering heat waves enticed me to the 
or drift, the fly floating through the rapids far was coming fast, and with renewed hope the spot. Climbing the steep bank, I sat down in 
in advance of my faltering steps. I followed the reel was worked overtime. It appears as though a bed of early violets, removed the well-filled 
brook in its windings through an open field this particular trout was indeed a man eater, basket from my shoulders, and again brought 
of a deserted farm and heard the notes of robins for he seemed intent on rushing to grab me by forth the lunch, this time placing the entire 
and meadowlarks. A phoebe flitted to a nearby the boot. Suddenly he turned and by luck menu, piece by piece, on stones and stumps to 
