dog trotted beneath the phaeton, and, 
as the horse stopped, wandered discon¬ 
solately to the shade of an apple tree, 
where he sat on his haunches, the pic¬ 
ture of sublime unhappiness. 
“He’s been out on a chipmunk an’ 
woodchuck ex-pe-dition,” Mister Chip 
explained, with a smiling grimace, 
“swallered too many uv ’em, hide an’ 
all . . . sorter sick t’ his stummick. 
Imagine how YOU’D feel, if ye et’ a 
coupla fur overcoats an’ sealskin 
wraps! Reckon he’s got a hairy taste 
in his mouth. Been spittin’ up fuzz 
since yestiddy . . . thought a walk 
might im-prove his indigestion.” 
Sonnyboy remembered Chip’s promise 
of trout fishing, and edged around to 
that subject. 
“When is the best time?” he inquired. 
“I ain’t fergot ye’, young man,” 
Mister Chip responded, “but you’all 
looked as if yu needed acclimatin’ for a 
coupla days at least. Now as t’ trout 
in these regions ... I wanted to ex¬ 
plain som’ things. Time . . . Pike 
County trout in these little creeks an’ 
mountain brooks is jest about as wise 
an’ all-seein’ as humans. There mos’ 
generally aint enuff water fer yu t’ go 
after ’em in broad daylight . . . 
when th’ sun is out full. 
“Very early in th’ mornin’ er power¬ 
ful late in th’ evenin’ is common sense, 
but there’s a better time still—that’s 
at night . . . when it’s black dark or 
th’ moon showin’ a spec’. You’ll see ’em 
jump outern th’ water . . . nippin’ 
pieces uv moss an’ danglin’ leaves. It 
aint right fer me t’ say this . . . 
leastwise not to a YOUNG fisherman, 
just lamin’ . . . but I’ve caught 
trout in these waters with a net . . . 
jes scooped ’em up . . . even caught 
’em with an’ old gunny-sack, by holdin’ 
its mouth open wide. 
“Somethin’ is happenin’ t’ trout here¬ 
abouts. I’ve seen it cornin’ on fer years 
... fer twenty years. When I was 
considerable younger than I am now, 
there was nothin’ but rainbows . . . 
beauties, an’ with dispositions like wild 
cats. Then, slow-like, but sure, in came 
th’ German Browns. An’ they have 
gotten th’ best uv our native trout. 
How come? Oh, eatin’ ’em up. 
“What makes me mad is that they 
aint th’ same eatin’. German Browns 
is too rangy. But they’ll eat young 
rainbows as you’d eat cherries . . . 
one after anuther. Take Sawkill Creek 
. . . once it was alive with native 
trout . . . an’ now nothin’ but Ger¬ 
man Browns. Pesk take ’em! 
“Say, Young lad, here’s a story fer 
yu; back uv my house, in Sluice Creek, 
where th’ rainbows is still t’ be found, 
big, brown-complected water snakes 
• . . does away with two-poun'd trout 
. . an’ three-pounders. Hones’ . . . 
I’ve seen ’em do it. Th’ snake keeps 
his tail in th’ rocks, reaches out, grabs 
a fish on top uv his head, and . . . 
zingo . . . pulls it back inter his hole, 
like lightnin’. Everything an’ every¬ 
body seems set on destroyin’ trout . . . 
pore things!” 
“I guess I’d rather not catch any,” 
said Sonnyboy, reflecting upon all he 
had heard. 
Mister Chip laughed ... a laugh 
which was almost wholly tangled in 
that red, unkept beard of his. 
“M’lad,” was his reassuring re¬ 
joinder, “it’s always right t’ catch trout 
if yu’ play fair with ’em. Jes’ play 
fair. Any fish that’s as brave as a 
trout . . . any fish that is willin’ t’ 
put up such a good fight fer his life 
. . . OUGHT ter meet only GENTLE¬ 
MEN. 
“An’ they’re th’ same EVERY¬ 
WHERE: it’s jes’ nachally born in ’em 
. . . th’ blood strain. Take th’ case 
uv Art Payne uv Loon Lake. . . . Art, 
who is a County Supervisor an’ t’ be 
trusted jes’ th’ same when it comes t’ 
fish stories, was out one day with Rob 
Hayes. They was usin’ Archie Spin¬ 
ners with minnows an’ steel rods. 
“Th’ minute Art got that strike, he 
knew he had somethin' special t’ deal 
with. He thought it surely mus’ be a 
laker. But no ... it was a native 
brown trout! Time after time, that 
fish ran out after th’ first strike . . 
same as a railroad train. Mos' all Art’s 
line was in th’ water! Looked, too, as 
if th’ tackle wouldn’t stand th’ strain. 
Well Sir . . . that fight lasted fer 
just exactly thirty-five minutes, with 
Rob timin’ it by his watch! An’ then 
Art landed him! Now I call that gen¬ 
uine bravery. Fer his size, a trout is 
hero, through an’ through!” 
Sonnyboy listened breathlessly. 
“That’s why I’m sayin’ . . . give 
trout a chance. Bless their little hearts 
. . . they has as much real MAN in 
’em as th’ greatest man that ever lived.” 
Mister Chip glanced up at the sky. 
“It’ll cloud over by four o’clock,” said 
he, “an’ I’m cornin’ back up th’ moun¬ 
tain aroun’ that time. Got tackle?” 
We nodded. 
“Then I’ll keep my promise. But jes’ 
as a first try-out, we’ll go back of my 
place into t’ Creek. Place there 
close onto an ol’ deserted, haunted 
house, that has som’ trout waitin’ fer 
yer basket. Mebbe a snake er two 
• • . jes’ keep yer eyes open. I 
HAVE seen rattlers—” 
Sfrnnyboy’s eyes widened. He had no 
special affection for snakes, although 
he had seen them only in books. 
“SNAKES!” he whispered. 
“Snakes,” said Mister Chip, “aint 
lookin’ fer trouble from humans . 
an’ it’s that way with everythin’ in th’ 
woods, frum bears ter foxes. They’ll 
go about their business if YU let ’em 
do it. An’ there’s cures fer snake bite.” 
“But the law doesn’t allow it to be 
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