ADDENDA.

My respected associate, in a delightful letter from Watch-Hill, which was published the other day, concedes the attractive beauty of forest and river scenery, and the invigorating healthfulness of mountain air, but claims the palm for old ocean in both respects. A mutual friend, whose partialities lean forestward, sends us the following in reply:

TO "C. E. S."

I've read your letter-so you have a notion

That mount and lake must yield the palm to ocean?
Not so, my boy: I know you're orthodox,

And one small text your talk all endways knocks!
In that vast Heaven-which I hope you'll reach--
There rolls no ocean with its stretch of beach.
John, he of Patmos, in his splendid vision,
Saw no salt water 'mid the fields elysian-
That "better country," which is out of sight,
Has streams of crystal ever fresh and bright;
But John bears witness, and you must agree,
'Mid scenes all heavenly "there'll be no more sea."

You write good letters 'way from brick and mortar,
But your sea-sentiment-will not hold water.

CHAPTER XXXI.

STALE FISH IN A BAD FIX

REEL UP.

VENATOR. When I would beget content, and increase confidence in the power and wisdom and providence of Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those very many other various little living creatures, who are not only created, but fed, man knows not how, by the goodness of the God of nature, and therefore trust in Him. This is my purpose; and so, "Let every thing that hath breath praise the Lord:" and let the blessing of St. Peter's Master be with mine.

PISCATOR.- And upon all that are lovers of virtue and dare trust in His providence, and be quiet, and go a-Angling. -[Sir Izaak Walton.

OWEVER indifferent anglers may be in regard to the ordinary luxuries of the table, they have epicurean ideas about fish. A few hours makes a vast difference in the flavor of any fish; but with none is this fact more perceptible than with trout. Those anglers

mean well who compliment their friends with a mess of fish a week old; but however carefully they may have been doctored and packed, they lose their delicate flavor and are

stale; and a stale fish is an unpalatable morsel. While camping where a casting point was convenient (and it was rare when this was not the case), we never deemed it in good taste to cook a fish for breakfast which had been caught over night. If there are trout to be caught at all, you may be sure of a rise in the early morning; and you are equally sure of a delicious breakfast if you catch at five o'clock what you propose to eat at

seven.

I have had a great deal of pleasant sport at Pearsfield Falls, the most picturesque bit of scenery in the woods. Those who have visited these Falls will remember the unique ledge which projects out upon their right side. I have caught trout from that point, at the very verge of the boiling cauldron, until my arms ached. But this year the water was too high to render that particular spot accessible, and I took to the boat to reach a favorite eddy, where usually trout gather. To do so required a long cast in the immediate proximity of a mass of saw-logs, which were swirling like fierce war-horses in the rapid current and surging eddies which held them fast prisoners in their whirling circle. The experiment, for a moment, looked like a success; but, in making a second cast for a good sized trout which, at the first effort, failed to reach the lure, a gust of wind swept my leader from its

course, and instead of to the trout, which seemed eager to be taken, my fly hooked to a monster saw-log, which was pursuing its mad dance in the surging eddies. I "caved" at the possibility of landing so huge a catch, but was ambitious to save my tackling. The struggle was protracted and exciting, being in doubt whether, instead of saving my tackling, we would not ourselves be caught in the whirlpool, upon the very verge of which the struggle was progressing, and thereby give our friends at home an opportunity to laugh at our mishap or mourn at our funeral. But, fortunately, perhaps, in the adventurous spirit which had seized us, the saw-log was the victor. In making an unusual swirl, as it encountered some unusual eddy, helped by the bump of a score of others in a like predicament, my line snapped, and leader and flies were left prisoners of war, where they are still accompanying these fugitive saw-logs in their dizzy whirl at the foot of Pearsfield Falls. A few small trout, a sumptuous lunch, a drink of delicious water from one of the coldest springs in the wilderness, and several hours of unalloyed enjoyment, sufficed to fill our cup full of that quiet sort of pleasure which I find nowhere so abundantly as in these quiet forests.

My largest fish at Setting Pole rapids weighed three pounds. But I was enabled to go a pound

better a few days afterwards at "Three-Pound Pond," a beautiful sheet of water, clear as crystal, in the neighborhood of the famous "Hitching's Pond" which affords the best August fishing of any body of water in the woods. After a long siege of fly casting, with no other reward than a single fish of two pounds, I reluctantly resorted to the troll, when I was rewarded with a four pounder, the largest speckled trout I had ever captured. If I had taken him with a fly, I would have deemed it ample compensation for the time and expense of my trip. But that at least one "fish story" may be recorded truthfully, the trolling line and minnow are thus given the credit which belongs to them. I have often fished in this pond, and have taken therefrom many large trout, and it seems to hold no other, but I have succeeded, after patient trial, in taking but two with a fly. There may be points where, in July or August, the fly may be successful. But even this is doubtful, for the whole pond seems to be a bubbling spring, clear and cold, rendering it unnecessary for the fish to seek specially cool places in hot weather.

As usual, I took a run to Big Wolf Pond, where more large lake trout have been taken than in any other water inclosure in the woods, and where Dr. Perkins, two years ago, took his famous twentyseven-pounder. But the glory of "Big Wolf"