I never had much luck in catching trout. One summer I went from the city to try the trout-streams in Northern New York. I had a handsome rod, and a line nicely baited with an artificial fly; but, though I was very persevering, my success was small.
I remember sitting for hours on the slender bridge just below the Upper Cascades of Buttermilk Fall, represented in the picture; but my patience was not rewarded by the capture of a single trout. I was sorry for this; for I had depended on getting one for my dinner.
As I was about retiring, a little barefoot fellow, about twelve years old, came along with a common fishing-pole, and hook baited with a worm, and said, "Mister, I'll catch a trout for you."—"Do it, then," said I.
He threw his line over a smooth spot in the pool below; and, before he had been at it five minutes, he pulled up a noble trout, large enough for a good dinner. Another and another were pulled up in quick succession. I did not know what to make of it; for I thought I had fished in a very scientific way.

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