ream was conferred
upon me. There was a small boy in the village, the son of rich but
respectable parents, and an inveterate all-round sportsman, aged
fourteen years, with whom I had formed a close intimacy. I was telling
him about the pleasure of exploring the idle brook, and expressing the
opinion that in bygone days, (in that mythical "forty years ago" when
all fishing was good), there must have been trout in it. A certain
look came over the boy's face. He gazed at me solemnly, as if he were
searching the inmost depths of my character before he spoke.

"Say, do you want to know something?"

I assured him that an increase of knowledge was the chief aim of my
life.

"Do you promise you won't tell?"

I expressed my readiness to be bound to silence by the most awful pledge
that the law would sanction.

"Wish you may die?"

I not only wished that I might die, but was perfectly certain that I
would die.

"Well, what's the matter with catching trout in that brook now? Do you
want to go with me next Saturday? I saw four or five bully ones last
week, and got three."

On the appointed day we made the voyage, landed at the upper bridge,
walked around by the woodpath to the railroad embankment, and began
to worm our way down through the tangled wilderness. Fly-fishing, of
course, was out of the question. The only possible method of angling
was to let the line, baited with a juicy "garden hackle," drift down the
current as far as possible before you, under the alder-branches and the
cat-briers, into the holes and corners of the stream. Then, if there
came a gentle tug on the rod, you must strike, to one side or the other,
as the branches might allow, and trust wholly to luck for a chance to
play the fish. Many a trout we lost that day,--the largest ones, of
course,--and many a hook was embedded in a sunken log, or hopelessly
entwined among the boughs overhead. But when we came out at the bridge,
very wet and disheveled, we had seven pretty fish, the heaviest about
half a pound. The Fairy Dell yielded a brace of smaller ones, and
altogether we were reasonably happy as we took up the oars and pushed
out upon the open stream.

But if there were fish above, why should there not be fish below? It was
about sunset, the angler's golden hour. We were already committed to
the crime of being late for supper. It would add little to our guilt and
much to our pleasure to drift slowly down the middle of the brook and
cast the artf