y line upon it, and set it floating down stream,
the line uncoiling gently behind it as it went. When it reached the
eddy I raised my rod tip; the line straightened; the red-fin plunged
overboard, and a two-pound trout, thinking, no doubt, that the little
fellow had been hiding under the chip, rose for him and took him in.
That was the only one I caught. His struggle disturbed the pool, and the
other trout gave no heed to more red-fins.

Then, one morning at daybreak, as I sat on a big rock pondering new
baits and devices, a stir on an alder bush across the stream caught my
eye. Tookhees the wood mouse was there, running over the bush, evidently
for the black catkins which still clung to the tips. As I watched him
he fell, or jumped from his branch into the quiet water below and, after
circling about for a moment, headed bravely across the current. I could
just see his nose as he swam, a rippling wedge against the black water
with a widening letter V trailing out behind him. The current swept
him downward; he touched the edge of the big eddy; there was a swirl,
a mighty plunge beneath, and Tookhees was gone, leaving no trace but a
swift circle of ripples that were swallowed up in the rings and dimples
behind the rock.--I had found what bait the big trout wanted.

Hurrying back to camp, I loaded a cartridge lightly with a pinch of dust
shot, spread some crumbs near the big log behind my tent, squeaked the
call a few times, and sat down to wait. "These mice are strangers to
me," I told Conscience, who was protesting a little, "and the woods are
full of them, and I want that trout."

In a moment there was a rustle in the mossy doorway and Tookhees
appeared. He darted across the open, seized a crumb in his mouth, sat
up on his hind legs, took the crumb in his paws, and began to eat. I had
raised the gun, thinking he would dodge back a few times before giving
me a shot; his boldness surprised me, but I did not recognize him. Still
my eye followed along the barrels and over the sight to where Tookhees
sat eating his crumb. My finger was pressing the trigger--"O you big
butcher," said Conscience, "think how little he is, and what a big roar
your gun will make! Aren't you ashamed?"

"But I want the trout," I protested.

"Catch him then, without killing this little harmless thing," said
Conscience sternly.

"But he is a stranger to me; I never--"

"He is eating your bread and salt," said Conscience. That settled it;
but