the excellent pictures representing men in an open
boat, exposed to the assaults of long, enraged trout flying at them
through the open air with open mouth, ever ventures with his rod upon
the lonely lakes of the forest without a certain terror, or ever reads
of the exploits of daring fishermen without a feeling of admiration for
their heroism. Most of their adventures are thrilling, and all of them
are, in narration, more or less unjust to the trout: in fact, the
object of them seems to be to exhibit, at the expense of the trout, the
shrewdness, the skill, and the muscular power of the sportsman. My own
simple story has few of these recommendations.

We had built our bark camp one summer and were staying on one of the
popular lakes of the Saranac region. It would be a very pretty region if
it were not so flat, if the margins of the lakes had not been flooded
by dams at the outlets, which have killed the trees, and left a rim of
ghastly deadwood like the swamps of the under-world pictured by Dore's
bizarre pencil,--and if the pianos at the hotels were in tune. It would
be an excellent sporting region also (for there is water enough) if the
fish commissioners would stock the waters, and if previous hunters had
not pulled all the hair and skin off from the deers' tails. Formerly
sportsmen had a habit of catching the deer by the tails, and of being
dragged in mere wantonness round and round the shores. It is well known
that if you seize a deer by this "holt" the skin will slip off like the
peel from a banana--This reprehensible practice was carried so far
that the traveler is now hourly pained by the sight of peeled-tail deer
mournfully sneaking about the wood.

We had been hearing, for weeks, of a small lake in the heart of the
virgin forest, some ten miles from our camp, which was alive with trout,
unsophisticated, hungry trout: the inlet to it was described as stiff
with them. In my imagination I saw them lying there in ranks and rows,
each a foot long, three tiers deep, a solid mass. The lake had never
been visited except by stray sable hunters in the winter, and was
known as the Unknown Pond. I determined to explore it, fully expecting,
however, that it would prove to be a delusion, as such mysterious haunts
of the trout usually are. Confiding my purpose to Luke, we secretly
made our preparations, and stole away from the shanty one morning at
daybreak. Each of us carried a boat, a pair of blankets, a sack of
bread, p