APRIL 7, 1906.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 

The Reuben Wood Memorial. 
On the north bank of Sucker Brook, just 
where it empties into the fretful waters of Cran- 
berry Lake, in the Adirondacks, there stands a 
huge flat-faced piece of granite, weather-beaten 
and gray, upon which is carved a tribute to 
Reuben Wood, the far-famed fisherman and lover 
of nature, who had chosen this brook as one 
of his favorite streams in which to test his skill 
against the big-mouthed, speckled beauties that 
make their homes in the icy pools of the moun- 
tainous waterways. 
In those days the wilderness was unbroken 
and the tangle of the forest was of nature’s mak- 
ing, not man’s. The waters of the brook ran 
wild, and the shores were lined with spruce and 
pine. It was truly an ideal spot on the scarred 
surface of this old earth, and it was little wonder 
that it appealed to the kind and whole-souled 
spirit of Reuben Wood. That stream is a little 
THE 
changed now. The shadows along its winding, 
noisy route are not as dense or dreamy or 
friendly as they used to be. The cool green 
twilight is gone, and as the waters fall care- 
lessly over the moss-covered stones into the 
deep black pools where the trout abound, the 
gurgle is not as loud, the music not as sweet 
and the song of the forest not as true as it was 
in the happy days of long ago, when the wood- 
man’s ax had sought it not. 
During the summer of 1905, while making a 
trip through the solitary regions so often visited 
by Reuben Wood on his journeys into the wil- 
derness, I happened upon the spot where the 
carved rock lifts its head above the cool, slow- 
running waters, and could not refrain from tak- 
ing a picture of it with the background it had 
upon that sunlit afternoon in September. A 
year ago every spot along the banks of Sucker 
Brook were just as he had left them; but as the 
plaintive cry of a loon came to me across the 
waters of the big sky-colored lake at my feet, I 
could not help but think that were he to look 
upon them to-day, his friendly, cheerful eyes 
would hardly recognize the old loved haunts 
and he would bow his head and turn away, and 
not a word would pass his lips—that were wont 
to be his way. It is, we are told, only one of 
a5! 

the prints left in the sand of time by the foot 
of a man as he trudges on to a higher life, a 
more worldly civilization. EN GRICATZ, 
Futton, N. Y. 
The Trout of the Old Stone Mill. 
THE history of the trout of the Old Stone Mill 
came to me sifted through the lore of the old 
veteran trout fishermen who every evening 
habited the village tavern and told again and yet 
again the many incidents of their sport. 
From the wheel pit of the old mill to the swift 
waters of the creek is a small canal, roughly 
stoned on either side and containing about four 
feet of water when the wheel is not running. 
Where this canal merges into the wide stream it 
forms a deep pool; at its head the stream bends 
sharply to the right and on the left bank stands 
a dwarfed apple tree, its gnarled roots and leafy, 
MEMORIAL 
Wouse id 
REUBEN WOOD 
overhanging branches forming an ideal hiding 
place for trout. A narrow log bridge spans the 
foot of the pool. 
That this place was the hiding place of one of 
the finest trout in the stream there was not the 
shadow of a doubt for several seasons, for, had 
not “Van” seen him one day leap playfully from 
the water; and the “Squire”? hooked and lost him 
the same minute, and ‘“Stant” fastened a’ coach- 
man in his jaw. (To this day “Stant’” carries 
the broken hook.) All this was proof. enough 
that a monster trout made his hiding place in 
some deep crevice in the old stone wall. 
Many a good trout has fastened the fly in that 
pool behind the mill; trout that went a pound or 
two, but the men who had seen or felt “the big 
one” said he would easily weigh nearer three 
pounds. (This was decided after a long even- 
ing’s discussion at the tavern, led by the old vets 
and hotly contested by the younger fishermen. ) 
April 16 came and went. All the boys tried 
their luck and many fine strings were brought 
back and displayed in the tavern. Just enough 
rain came to bring the big fellows up the stream. 
The weather was ideal for the sport. Never 
flowed the upper Susquehanna when it looked 
more “‘trouty.”’ Not in years had the fish ran so 
large. As usual, city fishermen came, departing 

always with the best wishes of the boys and with 
well filled creels, and leaving behind the where- 
withal to “set ‘em up” over a new story. Just 
such a guest had departed one evening in mid- 
June leaving a crisp new bill in “Aut’s” hands. 
The tavern-keeper was dropping cracked ice in 
glasses when “Jud” walked in dressed in his 
familiar old fishing coat and hat and carrying a 
heavy basket and cased rod. 
“Boys,” he said, wiping his mouth on a hairy 
wrist, “I’ve got somethin’ to show you.” 
The regular evening game of high-low-jack 
stopped. The pool balls clicked no more. All 
crowded around the man who was slowly unroll- 
ing a limp object wrapped carefully in a large 
bandana handkerchief. 
Slowly the damp cloth unwound until there on 
the bar lay the largest and handsomest brook 
trout it has ever been my pleasure to see from the 
waters of the Susquehanna. No one asked a 
question; we all stared at the fish knowing in- 

[S TO-DAY. 
stinctively it was the famous denizen of the old 
mill hole. The fish was plumper and more highly 
colored than I have ever seen large trout before 
or since. The belly wore a red tinge. A yellow- 
ish-brown, variegated with a reddish-brown hue, 
covered the back and faded toward the sides. The 
strong red fins were edged with white; the square 
tail was a dull green. The circles around the 
bright crimson spots were almost blue and inter- 
spaced with rich golden yellow spots. A silvery- 
white luster extended from nose to tail on either 
side. 
“How’d you do it Jud?” asked Dick almost in a 
whisper as he wiped his glasses for another look. 
Jud stood leaning against the bar illustrating 
his story with the cased rod. The fish lay on 
the oaken boards beside its captor. 
“Well, you see,” he began, “I had a touch of 
the fever all day and when it began to cloud up 
and look ‘fishy’ this afternoon I just grabbed my 
tackle and started for the stream. I struck in 
below the woods and fished down toward the 
mill. The fish seemed to be jumping pretty good. 
I was just getting interested when I reached the 
hole behind the old mill. The first cast under 
the apple tree brought out a pounder, and a half 
pounder followed him into the basket. Didn’t 
seem to be any more there, so I stepped down 
