Little Rivers [17]
the only dwelling within a
circle of many miles. The deer and bear were in the majority. At
night one could sometimes hear the scream of the panther or the
howling of wolves. But soon the wilderness began to wear the
traces of a conventional smile. The desert blossomed a little--if
not as the rose, at least as the gilly-flower. Fields were
cleared, gardens planted; half a dozen log cabins were scattered
along the river; and the old house, having grown slowly and
somewhat irregularly for twenty years, came out, just before the
time of which I write, in a modest coat of paint and a broad-
brimmed piazza. But Virgil himself, the creator of the oasis--well
known of hunters and fishermen, dreaded of lazy guides and
quarrelsome lumbermen,--"Virge," the irascible, kind-hearted,
indefatigable, was there no longer. He had made his last clearing,
and fought his last fight; done his last favour to a friend, and
thrown his last adversary out of the tavern door. His last log had
gone down the river. His camp-fire had burned out. Peace to his
ashes. His wife, who had often played the part of Abigail toward
travellers who had unconsciously incurred the old man's mistrust,
now reigned in his stead; and there was great abundance of maple-
syrup on every man's flapjack.
The charm of Bartlett's for the angler was the stretch of rapid
water in front of the house. The Saranac River, breaking from its
first resting-place in the Upper Lake, plunged down through a great
bed of rocks, making a chain of short falls and pools and rapids,
about half a mile in length. Here, in the spring and early summer,
the speckled trout--brightest and daintiest of all fish that swim--
used to be found in great numbers. As the season advanced, they
moved away into the deep water of the lakes. But there were always
a few stragglers left, and I have taken them in the rapids at the
very end of August. What could be more delightful than to spend an
hour or two, in the early morning or evening of a hot day, in
wading this rushing stream, and casting the fly on its clear
waters? The wind blows softly down the narrow valley, and the
trees nod from the rocks above you. The noise of the falls makes
constant music in your ears. The river hurries past you, and yet
it is never gone.
The same foam-flakes seem to be always gliding downward, the same
spray dashing over the stones, the same eddy coiling at the edge of
the pool. Send your fly in under those cedar branches, where the
water swirls around by that old log. Now draw it up toward the
foam. There is a sudden gleam of dull gold in the white water.
You strike too soon. Your line comes back to you. In a current
like this, a fish will almost always hook himself. Try it again.
This time he takes the fly fairly, and you have him. It is a good
fish, and he makes the slender rod bend to the strain. He sulks
for a moment as if uncertain what to do, and then with a rush darts
into the swiftest part of the current. You can never stop him
there. Let him go. Keep just enough pressure on him to hold the
hook firm, and follow his troutship down the stream as if he were a
salmon. He slides over a little fall, gleaming through the foam,
and swings around in the next pool. Here you can manage him more
easily; and after a few minutes' brilliant play, a few mad dashes
for the current, he comes to the net, and your skilful guide lands
him with a quick, steady sweep of the arm. The scales credit him
with an even pound, and a better fish than this you will hardly
take here in midsummer.
"On my word, master," says the appreciative Venator, in Walton's
Angler, "this is a gallant trout; what shall we do with him?" And
honest Piscator, replies: "Marry! e'en eat him to supper; we'll go
to my hostess from whence we came; she told me, as I was going out
of door, that my brother Peter, [and who is this but Romeyn of
Keeseville?]
circle of many miles. The deer and bear were in the majority. At
night one could sometimes hear the scream of the panther or the
howling of wolves. But soon the wilderness began to wear the
traces of a conventional smile. The desert blossomed a little--if
not as the rose, at least as the gilly-flower. Fields were
cleared, gardens planted; half a dozen log cabins were scattered
along the river; and the old house, having grown slowly and
somewhat irregularly for twenty years, came out, just before the
time of which I write, in a modest coat of paint and a broad-
brimmed piazza. But Virgil himself, the creator of the oasis--well
known of hunters and fishermen, dreaded of lazy guides and
quarrelsome lumbermen,--"Virge," the irascible, kind-hearted,
indefatigable, was there no longer. He had made his last clearing,
and fought his last fight; done his last favour to a friend, and
thrown his last adversary out of the tavern door. His last log had
gone down the river. His camp-fire had burned out. Peace to his
ashes. His wife, who had often played the part of Abigail toward
travellers who had unconsciously incurred the old man's mistrust,
now reigned in his stead; and there was great abundance of maple-
syrup on every man's flapjack.
The charm of Bartlett's for the angler was the stretch of rapid
water in front of the house. The Saranac River, breaking from its
first resting-place in the Upper Lake, plunged down through a great
bed of rocks, making a chain of short falls and pools and rapids,
about half a mile in length. Here, in the spring and early summer,
the speckled trout--brightest and daintiest of all fish that swim--
used to be found in great numbers. As the season advanced, they
moved away into the deep water of the lakes. But there were always
a few stragglers left, and I have taken them in the rapids at the
very end of August. What could be more delightful than to spend an
hour or two, in the early morning or evening of a hot day, in
wading this rushing stream, and casting the fly on its clear
waters? The wind blows softly down the narrow valley, and the
trees nod from the rocks above you. The noise of the falls makes
constant music in your ears. The river hurries past you, and yet
it is never gone.
The same foam-flakes seem to be always gliding downward, the same
spray dashing over the stones, the same eddy coiling at the edge of
the pool. Send your fly in under those cedar branches, where the
water swirls around by that old log. Now draw it up toward the
foam. There is a sudden gleam of dull gold in the white water.
You strike too soon. Your line comes back to you. In a current
like this, a fish will almost always hook himself. Try it again.
This time he takes the fly fairly, and you have him. It is a good
fish, and he makes the slender rod bend to the strain. He sulks
for a moment as if uncertain what to do, and then with a rush darts
into the swiftest part of the current. You can never stop him
there. Let him go. Keep just enough pressure on him to hold the
hook firm, and follow his troutship down the stream as if he were a
salmon. He slides over a little fall, gleaming through the foam,
and swings around in the next pool. Here you can manage him more
easily; and after a few minutes' brilliant play, a few mad dashes
for the current, he comes to the net, and your skilful guide lands
him with a quick, steady sweep of the arm. The scales credit him
with an even pound, and a better fish than this you will hardly
take here in midsummer.
"On my word, master," says the appreciative Venator, in Walton's
Angler, "this is a gallant trout; what shall we do with him?" And
honest Piscator, replies: "Marry! e'en eat him to supper; we'll go
to my hostess from whence we came; she told me, as I was going out
of door, that my brother Peter, [and who is this but Romeyn of
Keeseville?]