When the Witch Hobble 
Blooms 
(Continued from page 403) 
quite a thrilling fashion. By keeping 
dead against the wind, however, I made 
fair progress and arrived at the land- 
ing after. a brief hour of good, stiff 
exercise. 
As I walked over the trail, the woods 
on either side presented rare and de- 
lightful vistas. They were a bower of 
blooming witch-hobble, scattered as far 
as the eye could see. Occasionally a 
gust of wind would swoop down and 
toss a cloud of snow petals into the 
air, and with the tender green of bud- 
ding trees forming a lacy background 
the forest appeared indeed a garden of 
fairyland and enchanting beauty. 
Witch-hobble has always been a fa- 
vorite shrub of mine in this region. 
During the winter the long succulent 
buds thrust above the snow form a 
principal article of food for the hungry 
deer. In the spring the flowers, with 
their rounded white and sometimes 
pinkish blossoms, are a feast of loveli- 
ness to the eye, and throughout the 
summer the branches and stems of 
brown or madder-purple, with their 
large heart-shaped leaves, pack the 
woods with a luxurious undergrowth. 
Then, in the fall, the berrylike fruit, 
depending in bright scarlet clusters, 
with the leaves turned dark red or 
maroon, form exquisite groups of au- 
tumn coloring, and in fact this period is 
almost if not quite as beautiful as the 
blossoming season. When the witch- 
hobble blooms you are always ready 
to go fishing; and when the berries are 
drying and growing purple on the 
branches the desire to hunt warms and 
waxes until perforce you take down the 
trusty old 38-55 from the rack where 
it has hung for many moons, and de- 
part into the forest with sleuthlike 
stealthiness and supreme anticipation. 
Ever since that momentous afternoon 
at Beavertail Pond, blossoming witch- 
hobble has symbolized for me a de- 
lightful memory of Salmo Sebago. And 
the title of this chronicle suggested 
itself as appropriate because of the 
recollection of that battle which the 
woods, dappled with a legion of fra- 
grant blooms, never fails to recall. 
The trail I was following led up 
through a hardwood valley, topped a 
low rise of ground and slipped down 
to the Pond on the other side. 
Arrived at the shore, I found that 
the wind, although stiff and squally, 
was considerably curtailed by the en- 
compassing high hills and rather small 
dimensions of the Pond. However, it 
was blowing hard enough to make fish- 
“ing single-handed anything but an easy 
task. 
Page 439 
In writing to Advertisers mention Forest and Stream, 
After turning over the guide boat 
and putting in my rods, net and a bait- 
pail containing a half dozen live dace, 
I launched forth with doubtful expec- 
tations. I had with me a _ six-ounce 
fly rod and a light trolling rod. On 
the latter I used a small sinker and a 
single hook silver spoon. Baiting this 
up with one of the dace which I hooked 
through the lip so it could swim about, 
I dropped the line over the stern, paid 
out thirty or forty feet, and settled 
the rod firmly against the seat within 
easy reach. Rowing at intervals, I 
skirted along fairly close to the north 
shore while I cast with the fly rod. 
Despite the cloudy weather, the Pond 
offered an exquisite wilderness picture 
of burgeoning spring. To the south 
and east rose forested hills, and to the 
northeast lay the bowl of a great hard- 
wood valley overlooked by a _ sheer 
mountain which before lumbering op- 
erations had mutilated its beauty had 
been crowned solidly with a superb 
growth of spruce, hemlock and balsam. 
Notwithstanding the havoc created by 
log shutes and the felling of its timber, 
this mountain broached the skyline as 
a monument still impregnable and 
inspiring in its grandeur; and while 
its heights were desolated where the 
conifers had stook thickest, the lower 
slopes as well as those of the meres || 
ing hills exhibited every imaginable 
and delicate tint of verduous loveliness. 
The vermillion keys of the maples, the 
yellow of the birches, the cream-colored 
soft maples, were mingled with vari- 
ous shades of green and mauve and 
the blossoms of wild cherries and shad- 
berries in a cloud of bloomy, delicious 
coloring. Here and there along shore 
a shaggy pine towered in somber priest- 
like majesty. 
Having so many irons in the fire 
kept me pretty busy. It is no joke to 
cast a fly in a stiff wind, even when 
you have someone to handle the boat 
for you. Alone, the difficulties are 
increased and the flies swishing over 
your head and uncomfortably close to 
your ears seem imbued with the per- 
versity of live bumblebees. Twice I 
hooked myself in the back, owing to 
a mischievous squall, and three times 
my line and leader came flouncing into 
the boat, snarled and twisted in what 
appeared at first glance an inextricable 
mess. Fishermen, if sometimes pro- 
fane, however, must withal be pa- 
tient; so with no one within earshot, I 
managed to disentangle the offending 
line. 
Before I reached the outlet, and in 
spite of the adverse conditions, I had the 
good luck to land half a dozen speckled 
trout, the largest weighing about half 
a pound. All this was reviving to one’s 
spirits; without an exception every fish 





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