At 4 o’clock the next morning I was on the stream again, feeling my way carefully down, catching a trout at every cast, and putting them mostly back with care, that they might live; but’ for an hour no sign of a fresh-run river trout.
Below the bridge there is a meadow, the oldest clearing on the creek; there are trees scattered about this meadow that are models of arborial beauty, black walnut, elm, ash, birch, hickory, maple, etc. Most of them grand, spreading trees. One of them, a large, umbrageous yellow-birch, stood on the left bank of the stream, and was already in danger of a fall by
“The swifter current that mined its roots.”
It was here I met them on the June rise.
I dropped my cast of two flies just above the roots of the birch, and on the instant, two fresh-run, silver-sided, red-spotted trout immolated themselves, with a generous self-abnegation that I shall never forget.
Standing there on that glorious June morning, I made cast after cast, taking, usually, two at each cast. I made no boyish show of “playing” them. They were lifted out as soon as struck. To have fooled with them would have tangled me, and very likely have scattered the school.
It was old-time angling; I shall not see it again.
My cast was a red hackle for tail-fly, with something like the brown hen for hand-fly. I only used two, with four-foot leader; and I was about the only angler who used a fly at all in those days, on these waters.
I fished about one hour. I caught sixty-four trout, weighing thirteen and three quarter pounds. I caught too many. I was obliged to string some of them, as the creel would not hold them all. But my head was moderately level. When I had caught as many as I thought right I held up; and I said, if any of these natives get on to this school, they will take the last trout, if it be a hundred pounds. And they will salt them down. So when I was done, and the fishing was good as at the start, I cut a long “staddle,” with a bush at the top, and I just went for that school of trout. I chevied, harried and scattered them, up stream and down, until I could not see a fish. Then I packed my duffle and went to the little inn for breakfast. Of course every male biped was anxious to know “where I met ’em.” I told them truly; and they started, man and boy, for the “Big Birch,” with beech rods, stiff linen lines,’ and a full stock of white grubs.
I was credibly informed afterward, that these backwoods cherubs did not succeed in “Meeting ’em on the June rise.” I have a word to add, which is not important though it may be novel.