Fes, 24, 1900.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 

among which the Alsine greenlandica, and Soli- 
dago virga aurea, variety Alpina, was sparingly 
growing. The cowberry and alpine bearberries 
were noticeable in patches on certain parts. 
Lecidea geographica was abundant on the rocks 
all over the upper portions of the mountain. 
The botanical features seem to be identical with 
those of the same altitude at Mt. Washington. 
The view- from the summit is beyond de- 
scription. One draws back with awe as he 
looks down 3,000 feet into Chimney Pond, over 
precipices too steep to be descended. It is said 
by one who has witnessed both, that there is 
here a striking resemblance to the peaks and 
ridges of the Andes. Far to the north and 
the lips of the preacher, and so we bade good- 
by to the mountain, disfigured by the passion 
which had agitated its youth, the violence of 
which had not been tempered with old age, but 
only held in a certain sullen reserve. We spent 
the night at Katahdin Lake, leaving the next 
morning for a tramp over the roughest trail to 
Wizard’s Camp, about three miles distant, 
where we took dinner and rested a couple of 
hours. The camera was sent forward and our 
pictures were secured as we forded the Was~ 
sattaquoick with our packs upon our backs. In 
the afternoon a five-mile tramp was made, 
bringing us to Robar’s Camp at Dacy’s Dam, 
the host being a very interesting Frenchman 

KATAHDIN’S SUMMIT. 
south and west, the eye rests upon a broad ex- 
panse filled with forests and mountains, lakes 
and streams, mingled with surpassing loveliness. 
The mountain is composed largely of granite, 
that on the top of the mountain being red. The 
northwest slope and the ridge were covered 
with the fragmentary plates of rock loosened 
by the frost. The red granite caps the white- 
colored rock, very much as one sedimentary 
rock upon a conical peak caps another of dit- 
ferent composition. Standing at this point, 
there is revealed at once the grand and the 
beautiful, with peculiarities not to be found else- 
where. 
Late in the afternoon we made our way, with 
some difficulty, into the basin, where we camped 
for the night at Chimney Pond. 
The next day was Sunday, but having been 
delayed a day in the ascent of the mountain, we 
were compelled to take up our tramp, for we 
had consumed our provisions and were six miles 
and a half in a rugged forest from our first 
camp, where we had left a supply for our re- 
turn trip. 
We can never forget the glory of the moun- 
tain as on this morning of departure the rising 
sun shone from the eastern gorge into the 
basin, crowning the western ridge and slope 
with a golden light, bringing out in minutest 
details both form and color; the eastern half in 
dark shadow, the lake a burnished mirror, re- 
flecting everything as distinctly as if it were the 
object itself. 
We had seen the old mountain in its varying 
moods, at first angry at our approach, flashing 
with terrific lightning and dreadful with the 
roar of thunder reverberating from side to side 
in this grand and matchless basin. Again from 
the summits came rolling in the curling mists 
of purest whiteness, spreading over all its soft 
canopy. now with benignant face, radiant 
Katahdin seems to give us a parting blessing, 
and instinctively this Sabbath morning we lis- 
tened to the message more eloquent than from 
who lives in these woods summer and winter. 
Here we enjoyed his camp-fire, listening to his 
stories of wild adventure, and watching in this 
favoring place the meteoric display of the 
evening of Aug. 10. Two days more of unevent- 
ful travel brought us again to those whom we 
loved, from whom and the world we had been 
isolated for ten days without possibility of mes- 
sage. 
Fishing a la Mode. 
I sAwW in some newspaper recently a descrip- 
tion of a dude sportsman, gunner or fisherman, 
I forgot which, and “that reminds me” of a fel- 
low I saw one day last summer, just outside of 
Paris, fishing in the Seine. 
To prelude, the laws are very strict over there 
in regard to fishing and shooting. The seasons 
open and shut like a jack-knife with a snap, and 
woe to the transgressor, On a certain day in 
July, I think, the season opens, and long before 
daylight of the day the banks of the river all 
along the Bois de Boulogne are lined with fisher- 
men sitting side by side and almost elbow to 
elbow. I strolled down to the river one day and 
witnessed the sport. Taking out a cigar I paid 
a woman two sous for a chair, and sat down to 
get a wrinkle in French fishing. For half an 
hour all sat in silence, with not a movement. 
Presently one fellow had a nibble. Immediately 
every eye was turned on the little red float on his 
line. The float moved perceptibly. The man, 
with every nerve strained and eyes riveted on 
the float, breathless with excitement, watched. 
The float dipped again. The man pulled, the cork 
came to the surface, but no fish. All along the 
line of fishermen there was an ejaculation of Ah! 
The disappointed fisherman put on a fresh bait 
and waited. Presently the fish took hold again; 
and this time he had him. Carefully he worked 
him in to the bank; and an attendant slipped a 
delicate landing net under the fish and carried 
him up the bank. There was a cry all along the 
line of fifty or more fishermen of Bon, bon, trés 
joli, Several laid down their rods and gathered 
around the basket, lined with leaves, in which 
the fish was carefully placed. He was a mon- 
ster, nearly six inches long, and must have 
weighed about four ounces. Then all went at it 
again with renewed hope and courage. 
Presently a cab drove up, and there descended 
from it a dude in an elaborate sporting costume 
—eye-glasses and a broad-brimmed hat. Walking 
leisurely to the bank, a man who had evidently 
been sent ahead to secure a position, vacated. A 
servant brought from the cab a folding stool and 
placed it on the bank; returning to the cab he 
produced a delicate rod and satchel. The rod 
was put together; the satchel was opened and a 
small silver bait box, a towel, a piece of soap 
ane a bowl were placed on another stool along- 
side. 
The servant opened an umbrella and held it 
over the fisherman’s head to screen him from 
the sun, and the fishing began. It was a long 
wait for a bite. Finally there was a nibble and 
a miss; several more nibbles and misses, and 
presently there was a fish, sure enough. The 
excitement all along the bank was intense. With 
the aid of the landing net the fish was secured. 
The servant essayed to take it off the hook; 
but the fisherman anticipated him, and held it 
up intriumph. But this operation wet the dude’s 
gloves, and he took them off and threw them 
away. Things were getting interesting and ex- 
citing, and blank the expense. Presently an- 
other fish, which being secured, the servant 
dipped up water from the river and handed the 
dude the soap and towel; and he washed his 
hands. This was repeated every time he caught 
a fish. All this time a gen d’arme had been 
walking up and down; and approaching the 
lucky fisherman, there followed an animated 
conversation, with much gesticulating, seem- 
ingly a protest against such indiscriminate 
slaughter. The dude waxed indignant and quit. 
The servant unjointed the rod, gathered up the 
stools, umbrella and fish basket, and placed 
them in the cab which had been waiting. The 
dude entered and was driven off with his catch, 
numbering about six, the aggregate weight of 
which might have been two pounds—an immense 
success. I have no doubt this great catch made 
an item in next morning’s paper, with the usual 
lie about the weight of the string and the big 
one that was lost. 
I had learned how the French do it. Evi- 
dently a little fishing goes a long way with a 
Frenchman. No doubt my little man went 
home, took a rose water bath, and lay down for 
a rest after such a fatiguing and exciting 
episode. I thought to myself, how I would like 
to get that chap out in the Rockies on a thorn 
brush creek, of a hot day, and make him wade 
the stream, with an occasional stumble over a 
slippery boulder and a souse under. What a 
power of good it would do him, and what fun 
for me! ae 

The last number of the Journal of American Folklore 
contains the third of Phillips Barry’s papers on the 
“Traditional Ballads in New England.” Mr. Barry gives 
several variations of ‘Lord Lovell” and other old ballads 
which have been preserved in this country; but of more 
curious interest is the song of “Springfield Mountain,’ 
which “enjoys the distinction of being the only tradi- 
tional ballad based upon an American incident.” We 
give one of the variants as it was sung halfacentury ago: 
On Springfield Mountain there did dwell 
A likely youth as I’ve heerd tell, 
A likely youth of twenty-one, 
Leftenant Curtis’ onlie son, 
Onlie son, 
Leftenant Curtis’ onlie son. 
On Monday morning he did go 
Down.to the meadow for to mow. 
He mowed around till he did feel 
Some pizen sarpent bite his heel. 
He laid his scythe down on the ground, 
And with his eyes he looked around 
To see if he could anyone spy | ‘ 
To carry him home, where he might die. 
This young man soon gin up the ghost, 
And away from this carnal world did post, 
Crying all the way, as on he went, 
“Cru-el, cru-el, cru-el sarpent.” 
