baseness: I put a "sinker" on my line. It is the
practice of the country folk, whose only object is to get fish, to use
a good deal of bait, sink the hook to the bottom of the pools, and wait
the slow appetite of the summer trout. I tried this also. I might as
well have fished in a pork barrel. It is true that in one deep, black,
round pool I lured a small trout from the bottom, and deposited him
in the creel; but it was an accident. Though I sat there in the awful
silence (the roar of water and thunder only emphasized the stillness)
full half an hour, I was not encouraged by another nibble. Hope,
however, did not die: I always expected to find the trout in the next
flume; and so I toiled slowly on, unconscious of the passing time. At
each turn of the stream I expected to see the end, and at each turn I
saw a long, narrow stretch of rocks and foaming water. Climbing out of
the ravine was, in most places, simply impossible; and I began to look
with interest for a slide, where bushes rooted in the scant earth would
enable me to scale the precipice. I did not doubt that I was nearly
through the gorge. I could at length see the huge form of the Giant of
the Valley, scarred with avalanches, at the end of the vista; and it
seemed not far off. But it kept its distance, as only a mountain can,
while I stumbled and slid down the rocky way. The rain had now set in
with persistence, and suddenly I became aware that it was growing dark;
and I said to myself, "If you don't wish to spend the night in this
horrible chasm, you'd better escape speedily." Fortunately I reached
a place where the face of the precipice was bushgrown, and with
considerable labor scrambled up it.

Having no doubt that I was within half a mile, perhaps within a few
rods, of the house above the entrance of the gorge, and that, in any
event, I should fall into the cart-path in a few minutes, I struck
boldly into the forest, congratulating myself on having escaped out of
the river. So sure was I of my whereabouts that I did not note the bend
of the river, nor look at my compass. The one trout in my basket was no
burden, and I stepped lightly out.

The forest was of hard-wood, and open, except for a thick undergrowth of
moose-bush. It was raining,--in fact, it had been raining, more or
less, for a month,--and the woods were soaked. This moose-bush is most
annoying stuff to travel through in a rain; for the broad leaves slap
one in the face, and sop him with wet.