the irascible, kind-hearted, indefatigable, was there no longer. He had
made his last clearing, and fought his last fight; done his last favour
to a friend, and thrown his last adversary out of the tavern door. His
last log had gone down the river. His camp-fire had burned out. Peace
to his ashes. His wife, who had often played the part of Abigail toward
travellers who had unconsciously incurred the old man's mistrust, now
reigned in his stead; and there was great abundance of maple-syrup on
every man's flapjack.

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.