We made camp at a bend in the creek where there was a large surface of mossy rock uncovered by the shrunken stream,—­a clean, free space left for us in the wilderness that was faultless as a kitchen and dining-room, and a marvel of beauty as a lounging-room, or an open court, or what you will.  An obsolete wood or bark road conducted us to it, and disappeared up the hill in the woods beyond.  A loose boulder lay in the middle, and on the edge next the stream were three or four large natural wash-basins scooped out of the rock, and ever filled ready for use.  Our lair we carved out of the thick brush under a large birch on the bank.  Here we planted our flag of smoke and feathered our nest with balsam and hemlock boughs and ferns, and laughed at your four walls and pillows of down.

Wherever one encamps in the woods, there is home, and every object and feature about the place take on a new interest and assume a near and friendly relation to one.

We were at the head of the best fishing.  There was an old bark-clearing not far off which afforded us a daily dessert of most delicious blackberries,—­an important item in the woods,—­and then all the features of the place—­a sort of cave above ground—­were of the right kind.

There was not a mosquito, or gnat, or other pest in the woods, the cool nights having already cut them off.  The trout were sufficiently abundant, and afforded us a few hours’ sport daily to supply our wants.  The only drawback was, that they were out of season, and only palatable to a woodman’s keen appetite.  What is this about trout spawning in October and November, and in some cases not till March?  These trout had all spawned in August, every one of them.  The coldness and purity of the water evidently made them that much earlier.  The game laws of the State protect the fish after September 1, proceeding upon the theory that its spawning season is later than that,—­as it is in many cases, but not in all, as we found out.

The fish are small in these streams, seldom weighing over a few ounces.  Occasionally a large one is seen of a pound or pound and a half weight.  I remember one such, as black as night, that ran under a black rock.  But I remember much more distinctly a still larger one that I caught and lost one eventful day.

I had him on my hook ten minutes, and actually got my thumb in his mouth, and yet he escaped.

It was only the over-eagerness of the sportsman.  I imagined I could hold him by the teeth.

The place where I struck him was a deep well-hole, and I was perched upon a log that spanned it ten or twelve feet above the water.  The situation was all the more interesting because I saw no possible way to land my fish.  I could not lead him ashore, and my frail tackle could not be trusted to lift him sheer from that pit to my precarious perch.  What should I do? call for help? but no help was near.  I had a revolver in my pocket and might have shot him