one I caught. His struggle disturbed the pool, and the other
trout gave no heed to more red-fins.

Then, one morning at daybreak, as I sat on a big rock pondering
new baits and devices, a stir on an alder bush across the stream
caught my eye. Tookhees the wood mouse was there, running over
the bush, evidently for the black catkins which still clung to
the tips. As I watched him he fell, or jumped from his branch
into the quiet water below and, after circling about for a
moment, headed bravely across the current. I could just see his
nose as he swam, a rippling wedge against the black water with a
widening letter V trailing out behind him. The current swept him
downward; he touched the edge of the big eddy; there was a swirl,
a mighty plunge beneath, and Tookhees was gone, leaving no trace
but a swift circle of ripples that were swallowed up in the rings
and dimples behind the rock.--I had found what bait the big trout
wanted.

Hurrying back to camp, I loaded a cartridge lightly with a pinch
of dust shot, spread some crumbs near the big log behind my tent,
squeaked the call a few times, and sat down to wait. "These mice
are strangers to me," I told Conscience, who was protesting a
little, "and the woods are full of them, and I want that trout."

In a moment there was a rustle in the mossy doorway and Tookhees
appeared. He darted across the open, seized a crumb in his mouth,
sat up on his hind legs, took the crumb in his paws, and began to
eat. I had raised the gun, thinking he would dodge back a few
times before giving me a shot; his boldness surprised me, but I
did not recognize him. Still my eye followed along the barrels