I might also add, that at the foot of this bridge is one of the finest pools imaginable. It is, perhaps, one hundred feet long; and so very deep, that the clear water appears quite black. This is the finest spot in the whole brook for trout; and my luck there may be described as follows: I had basketed no less than nine half-pounders, when my fly was suddenly seized, and my snell snapped in twain by the fierceness of his leaps. The consequence of that defeat was, that I resolved to capture the trout, if I had to remain there all night. I then ransacked the mountain-side for a living bait, and with the aid of my companion, succeeded in capturing a small mouse, and just as the twilight was coming on, I tied the little fellow to my hook, and threw him on the water. He swam out in fine style; but when he reached the centre of the pool, a large trout leaped completely out of his element, and in descending, seized the mouse. The result was, that I broke my rod, but caught the trout; and though the mouse was seriously injured, I had the pleasure of again giving him his liberty.
The largest trout that I killed weighed nearly a pound; and though he was the cause of my receiving a ducking, he afforded me some sport, and gave me a new idea. When I first hooked him, I stood on the very margin of the stream, knee deep in a bog; and just as I was about to basket him, he gave a sudden leap, cleared himself, and fell into the water. Quick as thought, I made an effort to rescue him; but in doing so, lost my balance, and was playing the part of a turtle in a tub of water. I then became poetical, and thought it “would never do to give it up so;” and after waiting some fifteen minutes, I returned, and tried for the lost trout again. I threw my fly some twenty feet above the place where I had tumbled in, and recaptured the identical trout which I had lost. I recognized him by his having a torn and bleeding mouth.
This circumstance convinced me that trout, like many of the sons of men, have short memories, and also that the individual in question was a perfect Richelieu or General Taylor in his way, for he seemed to know no such word as fail. As to the trout that I did not capture, I verily believe that he must have weighed two pounds; but as he was probably a superstitious gentleman, he thought it the better part of valour, somewhat like Santa Anna, to treat the steel of his enemy with contempt.