I have been pent up
in the city now almost six months, and I am impatient to get
into the country again--especially among the trout-streams
about your quiet little village.
I have often thought of the sport we had the day we went up
to Dungeon Brook. I know it rained hard, but the string of
trout we caught beat any thing of the kind I ever happened to
see.
But I've got some good news for you. Father has decided to
spend part of the winter at Uncle Joe's, and he promises to
take you and me with him; so you can begin to pack up your
duds as soon as you wish.
That trout-pole you made for me last winter met with a
serious accident a few days since. One of my schoolmates
invited me to go up the river with him, and try a perch-bed
he had accidentally discovered. I had sent off my heavy pole
to the painters, so I was obliged to take my trout-pole. I
was afraid that I should break it, but it behaved beautifully
for about two hours, during which time I drew in sixty fine
perch and rock-bass--some of the former weighing between one
and two pounds--and I began to think that the pole was too
tough to break.
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