There offered little things to do, delicious little things just on the
hither side of idleness. A rod wrapping needed more waxed silk; a
favourite fly required attention to prevent dissolution; the pistol was
to be cleaned; a flag-pole seemed desirable; a trifle more of balsam
could do no harm; clothes might stand drying, blankets airing. We
accomplished these things leisurely, pausing for the telling of
stories, for the puffing of pipes, for the sheer joy of contemplations.
Deerskin slipper moccasins and flapping trousers attested our
deshabille. And then somehow it was noon, and Billy again at the Dutch
oven and the broiler.
Trout we ate, and always more trout. Big fellows broiled with strips of
bacon craftily sewn in and out of the pink flesh; medium fellows cut
into steaks; little fellows fried crisp in corn-meal; big, medium, and
little fellows mingled in component of the famous North Country
_bouillon_, whose other ingredients are partridges, and tomatoes,
and potatoes, and onions, and salt pork, and flour in combination
delicious beyond belief. Nor ever did we tire of them, three times a
day, printed statement to the contrary notwithstanding. And besides
were many crafty dishes over whose construction the major portion of
morning idleness was spent.
Now at two o'clock we groaned temporary little groans; and crawled
shrinking into our river clothes, which we dared not hang too near the
fire for fear of the disintegrating scorch, and drew on soggy hobnailed
shoes with holes cut in the bottom and plunged with howls of disgust
into the upper riffles.
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