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?] a good angler and a cheerful companion, had sent word he would lodge there tonight, and bring a friend with him.  My hostess has two beds, and I know you and I have the best; we’ll rejoice with my brother Peter and his friend, tell tales, or sing ballads, or make a catch, or find some harmless sport to content us, and pass away a little time without offence to God or man.”