ewarded by a present of
real fish-hooks. We found here in this rude cabin the hospitality that
exists in all remote regions where travelers are few. Mrs. McGregor
had none of that reluctance, which women feel in all more civilized
agricultural regions, to "break a pan of milk," and Mr. McGregor even
pressed us to partake freely of that simple drink. And he refused to
take any pay for it, in a sort of surprise that such a simple act of
hospitality should have any commercial value. But travelers themselves
destroy one of their chief pleasures. No doubt we planted the notion
in the McGregor mind that the small kindnesses of life may be made
profitable, by offering to pay for the milk; and probably the next
travelers in that Eden will succeed in leaving some small change there,
if they use a little tact.

It was late in the season for trout. Perhaps the McGregor was aware of
that when he freely gave us the run of the stream in his meadows, and
pointed out the pools where we should be sure of good luck. It was a
charming August day, just the day that trout enjoy lying in cool, deep
places, and moving their fins in quiet content, indifferent to the
skimming fly or to the proffered sport of rod and reel. The Middle
River gracefully winds through this Vale of Tempe, over a sandy bottom,
sometimes sparkling in shallows, and then gently reposing in the broad
bends of the grassy banks. It was in one of these bends, where the
stream swirled around in seductive eddies, that we tried our skill. We
heroically waded the stream and threw our flies from the highest bank;
but neither in the black water nor in the sandy shallows could any trout
be coaxed to spring to the deceitful leaders. We enjoyed the distinction
of being the only persons who had ever failed to strike trout in that
pool, and this was something. The meadows were sweet with the newly cut
grass, the wind softly blew down the river, large white clouds sailed
high overhead and cast shadows on the changing water; but to all these
gentle influences the fish were insensible, and sulked in their cool
retreats. At length in a small brook flowing into the Middle River we
found the trout more sociable; and it is lucky that we did so, for I
should with reluctance stain these pages with a fiction; and yet the
public would have just reason to resent a fish-story without any fish
in it. Under a bank, in a pool crossed by a log and shaded by a tree,
we found a drove of the speckled beau