Trout Fishing at Spring Brook. 
“Hello, Charles, are you there? Hello, the 
House!” 
1 hese words greeted me one morning in July 
as I sat at my solitary meal in my country home. 
I knew the voice to be that of my old chum, 
Lyman, and I jumped from my chair to greet 
him. 
“Hello yourself, Lyman. How are you? 
What’s up?’’ 
"Oh, I’m pretty peart, as the saying is, but 
what are you going to do to-morrow ?” 
“Nothing in particular. I am keeping bachel¬ 
or’s hall now, you know." 
"\es, I know, and that’s the reason I called 
to ask if you would go trout fishing with me to¬ 
morrow.” 
'Certainly I will. What time will you be 
around ?” 
“At six sharp, so be on the lookout, as we 
have a drive of twenty miles before us, and 
the roads are heavy.” 
“All right, I II be ready, and be sure you have 
plenty of bait." 
"I always look out for that,” said Lyman 
with a smile, and mounting his horse he rode 
rapidly away, leaving me to get my tackle in 
order and such other seasonable articles as my 
experience dictated would be essential to the 
trip. 
The next day at the appointed hour Lyman 
dashed up to the house with his jump-seat wagon 
and two mettlesome steeds, and stowing away 
my traps I seated myself beside him, and with 
a crack of the lash we were off, bowling over 
the.roads, which we found to be in better con¬ 
dition than we expected, at the rate of a good 
ten miles per hour. 
Between eight and nine we arrived at our 
destination, handed over our horses to our 
friend Faunce, at whose residence we stopped, 
and giving directions as to the disposition and 
feeding of the horses, donned our fishing coats 
and rubber boots and proceeded to the meadows 
through which the wide and winding stream 
flowed with its rippling waters and dark over¬ 
shaded pools. 
Our lunch was safely stowed beneath some 
pines in a neighboring grove, together with our 
spare tips and rod cases, and we hastened to 
the stream, Lyman going toward the head of 
the meadows to fish down to a bridge at which 
I was to commence. At the bridge we were to 
meet and compare notes and decide according 
to circumstances whether to keep on fishing, or 
to go to the cranberry bogs above where usually 
a few good ones could be secured by those con¬ 
versant with the course of the stream and best 
places for fishing. 
I baited my hook with a large angleworm 
and threw into a wide pool just below the bridge. 
At the first cast I had no response, and with¬ 
drawing the line I cast again. The bait had 
scarcely touched the water when it was seized 
and I saw the line rapidly running out down 
stream. I struck and knew that I had hooked 
a good one and for a few moments he gave 
great sport, fighting gamely at every inch as I 
reeled him in, till at last I brought to bag a 
three-quarter-pound fish, the first of some half 
dozen that soon followed after him. I then 
ON OPENING DAY. 
threw down my rod, lit my pipe and seated my¬ 
self on a knoll to rest. 
On looking up in the direction of the bridge 
I saw a man with a face as weazened and puck¬ 
ered as a baked apple. He was apparently about 
seventy-five years old and his long gray hair 
gave him quite a patriarchal appearance. As he 
drew near I hailed him, but received no reply. 
"The old fellow is deaf,” I thought, and 
waited until he was near at hand and again 
accosted him. 
"Good morning, friend; how are you to-day?” 
"Purty wed, purty well, thank’ee. How be 
you yourself?” 
"All right, I guess. I suppose there’s no ob¬ 
jection to fishing here?” 
"Oh, none at all, none at all. Fish all ye 
want to. But mind, I hain’t no ownership over 
this here medder, and am goin’ a-fishin’ myself. 
I guess nobuddy will disturb ye.” 
And with a grin he waved his hand and de¬ 
parted in the direction whence he came, which, 
as it now occurred to me, was toward the spot 
where I had deposited my spare tips and lunch. 
I watched the patriarch as he departed, think¬ 
ing that I had wasted my ammunition in vain, 
and in this I found subsequently I was not mis¬ 
taken. 
Having rebaited my hook I continued fishing, 
following the windings of the stream with an 
occasional nibble, now and then a bite, and once 
in a while hooking a good half-pounder, so that 
when about noon I heard Lyman’s voice in the 
distance calling me, I responded with a good, 
loud whoop, and reeling up my line began to 
retrace my steps in his direction. I had gone 
perhaps eighty rods when I saw Lyman coming 
around a bend toward me, and from the rapidity 
with which he was walking I knew something 
was up. Upon meeting me he said : “Charles, 
did you not place our lunch in the brush heap 
in the pines on the knoll together with the spare 
tips of our rods in their cases?” 
“Yes,” said I, “I did.” 
“Well, they are not there.” 
“Not there! Why, they must be, for I covered 
them up carefully, and no one could have seen 
them.” 
“Well,” said Lyman, “I can’t find them, and 
you had better come and see for yourself, for 
it is about noon now and I am beginning to 
feel hungry.” 
Together we proceeded to the grove. I went 
to the spot where I had deposited the lunch, tips 
and cases beneath the pines and covered them 
well with brush, and removing the same found 
to my astonishment that they had all been ab¬ 
stracted. 
“That is the work of the old* rogue of a 
countryman. I heard him moving around here 
for some time after he left me. I believe he 
has taken them. You go back, Lyman, and con¬ 
tinue your fishing and I will make further search 
for them, as it is possible they may have been 
rehidden nearby.” 
So saying I commenced a careful search of 
every bush and covert around for a long time 
without results. But at last I came to a great 
heap of pine brush, the tops of fallen trees which 
had been thrown down into a depression in the 
ground that in the wet season was filled with 
water, but was then dry. Proceeding down the 
declivity to the brush, I looked carefully there¬ 
in and espied something at last which seemed 
to my eyes like the case of my rod. I pulled 
