We had walked but a short distance, when Peter said: "I'll go down into
the woods, and try my luck there, and you'd better go along up stream,
about a quarter of a mile, to where it's rocky. P'raps you ain't used to
fishin' in the woods, and you might git your line cotched. You'll find
the trout'll bite in the rough water."
"Where is the stream?" I asked.
"This is it," he said, pointing to a little brook, which was scarcely
too wide for me to step across, "and there's fish right here, but
they're hard to ketch, fur they git plenty of good livin' and are mighty
sassy about their eatin'. But you kin ketch 'em up there."
Old Peter now went down toward the woods, while I walked up the little
stream. I had seen trout-brooks before, but never one so diminutive as
this. However, when I came nearer to the point where the stream issued
from between two of the foot-hills of the mountains, which lifted their
forest-covered heights in the distance, I found it wider and shallower,
breaking over its rocky bottom in sparkling little cascades.
Fishing in such a jolly little stream, surrounded by this mountain
scenery, and with the privileges of the beautiful situation all to
myself, would have been a joy to me if I had had never a bite. But no
such ill-luck befell me.
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