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The
Camp
Sun., June 7, 1925
I
have hunted and hunted during the past week hoping to find
a beetle shell with the creature still inside. The nymphs
must live in the water for the discarded cases are mostly
close to the bank, although a few apparently crawl inland
several yards. There are many empty husks, one or two with
the dragonfly nearly out, but none with the complete beastie
within. I did so want to observe the entire drama, to watch
an earthy grub crack through its cage and emerge-transformed.
We stay on and on, still trying to find and tie those loose
ends. Although we are working hard and things have not turned
out as we planned, we are enjoying our sojourn. The country
never smelt so sweet, it seems, as it does this year since
the apple blossoms first budded.
Everybody in the neighborhood is catching the biggest and
fattest trout, that is, everyone but Bill and me, though
we have often tried. Bill, however, is improving, for in
the Battenkill yesterday, he caught a mess of four whappers,
from about 5:30 A.M. till 1:00 P.M., saying he did not dare
come home again empty-handed.
Hoping for continued luck, after supper last evening Bill
and I drove to the Battenkill and, as usual upon leaving
the machine, locked it. Returning later with three nice
trout, we discovered we had put on the wrong lock to which
we had no key. Perhaps it would be a long drawn out chore
to remove the lock and better be left until daylight, so
we departed to Grampa's near-by empty house to spend the
night, and hopefully, in the morning, to enjoy a tasty trout
breakfast.
The whims of fate are often trying! In the morning there
were no three nice trout, not even one! A neighbor's cat
had had a piscatorial treat instead of ourselves. Luckily
someone had left a sample of wheatina at the door, which
with milk from the creamery, made a passable breakfast after
all. And to think, in two minutes, the garage man knocked
off the lock with a hammer.
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