'?****> 
* T run back here an’ git a trout er two 
. . . it’s jes’ not my style.” 
This homely method of reasoning 
appealed to me although I am willing 
to concede that every word is high 
treason with a multitude. Intensely 
professional trout fishermen have an 
established come-back to such loose 
talking. They say, and perhaps with 
perfect justification: “There can be 
Art to and in everything. If you fish 
for trout why not perfect your talents, 
your methods, your tools? Anything 
less than an ambition of this sort is 
inviting chronic mediocrity. Science? 
Yes. Is it a crime to want to do a 
thing the best way?” 
Chip continued: 
“Lord! Don’t bring that boy of 
yours up so as he will have ingrown 
pains frum an overdose uv know-how. 
I alius say t’ myself that trout fishin’ 
isn’t sport at all when you take it so 
seriously it—it HURTS. Jes’ let him 
play fair with th’ fish—put THAT 
first—an’ as fer th’ rest uv it . . . 
remember, no Empires is agoin’ ter 
rise ner fall, one way er th’ other. 
“Them fellers as is so wise studyin’ 
over flies an’ hand-made fumdiddles, 
with red tail-feathers an’ th’ thirty- 
forth quill frum’ an Aus-tralian pheas¬ 
ant, never git so infernal nigh imita¬ 
tin’ a trouts reg’lar diet. I’ll stick t’ 
that statement if I’m shot at sunrise 
by a special committee frum th’ Na¬ 
tional Trout growlers and grumblers 
association! I got a sort of idea that 
some trout is like silly women. They 
sort uv lose their heads an’ git skittish. 
They’ll try ANYTHING once. Haven’t 
I seen ’em come spickety-spank t’ th’ 
surface after 
leaves, pieces 
er stick, petals ^ 
off’n flowers, a gooseberry plumped in! 
“Up here, at this time uv th’ year, 
if I’m perfectly honest with you, they 
re-spond best t’ live bait an’ that’s why 
I got this tin o’ worms. I want th’ 
youngster to GET one without a mil¬ 
lion dollar’s worth uv Christmas tree 
ornaments. Sink a fly deep enuff, with 
th’ water clear, an’ you might do 
somethin’. Not more’n a few weeks 
ago, these Sluice Creek trout was still 
in their doldrums, keepin’ way down 
at th’ bottom uv th’ deepest places. 
They was content t’ feed on whutever 
come down with th’ waters. We’ll 
try whatever suits everybody, how- 
somever, jes’ t’ make it ex-citin’.” 
* * * 
Sluice Creek, as we found it on that 
drab, cool, scented afternoon, seemed 
to me to hold all the essential romance, 
charm, of the true trout brook, despite 
its colorless name. There came a soft, 
musical patter of rain, and the silver 
birches glistened more ghostly than 
ever. The deeper greens of the un¬ 
traversed wood were intensified by 
their bath. Up from the aromatic 
earth came that pungent and sweetly 
wm. 
r A memento of Sonnyboy’s tropic* 
trip. He could not resist the. temp- 
tatxon to be photographed alongside a studio 
fish and with atmospheric background 
Swirling, gurgling, singing waters, flowing 
over and around immaculate rocks in a Trout 
retreat any fish might well envy. 
wholesome perfume of a thousand 
mystic odors. Here, where we stood, 
on a low bank, there were ferns so 
tall, that they partially concealed us, 
and the higher fronds tickled Sonnyboy 
under his bobbing chin. Save for the 
romping feet of the rain and the ner¬ 
vous chatter of the creek, eddying 
around boulders in its course, the 
silence was impressive. Fishermen had 
never ventured here. Chip’s sporadic 
visits had not been enough to suggest 
a trail, or transgress upon the spiritual 
quality of a vast low amphitheatre of 
close-knit leaves. It was virgin and 
it was a fitting home for trout. 
Both Chip and I agreed that 
the boy should have first blood. 
(Continued on 
page 533) 
Page 487 
