When a boy of five years, he had an inkling for the mountains, and once had wandered so far, that he was found by his father, in the den of an old bear, playing with her cubs. To tramp among the mountains, with gun and dog, is Peter’s chief and only happiness. He is probably one of the best specimens of a hunter now living; and very few, I fancy, could have survived the dangers to which he has exposed himself. As to his constitution, he seems to be one of those iron mortals, who never die with age and infirmity, but who generally meet with a sudden death, as if to recompense them for their heedlessness. But with all his wildness and recklessness, Peter Hummel is as amiable and kind-hearted a man as ever breathed. He is an original wit, withal, and shrewd and very laughable are many of his speeches; and his stories are the cream of romance and genuine mountain poetry.
But to my story. As usual, we started on our tramp at an early hour, he with a trout-basket in his hand, containing our dinner, and I with my sketch-book and a “pilgrim staff.” After a tiresome ascent of three hours, up a mountain path, over ledges and through gloomy ravines, we at last reached the wished-for brook. All the day long were we cheered by its happy song, as we descended, now leaping from one deep pool to another, and now scrambling over green-coated rocks, under and around fallen trees, and along the damp, slippery sides of the mountain, until we reached its mouth on a plain, watered by a charming river, and sprinkled with the rustic residences of the Dutch yeomanry. We were at home by sunset, having walked the distance of twenty miles, and captured one hundred and fifty trout, the most of which we distributed among the farm-houses in our way, as we returned. The trout were small, varying from three to eight ounces in weight, and of a dark brown colour.
On another occasion, I had taken my sketch-book and some fishing-tackle, and gone up a mountain road to the banks of Schoharie Creek, nominally for the purpose of sketching a few trees. In the very first hole of the stream into which I accidentally peered, I discovered a large trout lying near the bottom, just above a little bed of sand, whence rose the bubbles of a spring. For some thirty minutes I watched the fellow with a “yearning tenderness;” but as he appeared to be so very happy, and I was in a kindred mood, I thought that I would let him live. Presently, however, a beautiful fly lighted on the water, which the greedy hermit swallowed in a minute, and returned to his cool bed with his conscience, as I fancied, not one whit troubled by what he had done. Involuntarily I began to unwind my line; and having cut a pole, and repeated to myself something about “diamond cut diamond,” I whipped on a red hackle and passed it over the pool. The rogue of a trout, however, saw me, and scorned for awhile to heed my lure. But I coaxed and coaxed, until at last he darted for it, apparently out of mere spite. Something similar to a miniature water-spout immediately arose, and the monarch of the brook was in a fair way of sharing the same fate which had befallen the innocent fly. I learned a salutary lesson from this incident, and as I had yielded to the temptation of the brook, I shouldered my sketch-book and descended the stream. At noon I reached a farm-house, where I craved something to eat. A good dinner was given me, which was seasoned by many questions, and some information, concerning trout. That afternoon, in company with a little boy, I visited a neighbouring stream, called the Roaring Kill, where I caught one hundred and sixty fish. I then returned to the farm-house, and spent the evening in conversation with my new acquaintances. After breakfast, on the following morning, I set out for home, and reached there about noon, having made only two additions to my sketches. Long shall I remember the evening spent with this family, and their hospitality towards an entire stranger. A pleasant family was that night added to my list of friends.