and that as such it is to be managed with all the science and practical foresight that the value of the yield will warrant. It is this increasing co-operation between the timber owner and the forester which is beginning to show that forestry as a business and a profession is economically due, while at the same time it calls attention to the true relation between the forester and the lumberman.

In countries whose forest producing area has been reduced to its normal extent, countries such as Germany, the foresters are also the lumbermen in that they superintend the business of lumbering in all its branches. Upon a broad scientific education, with special attention to Botany and Geology, they build their technical training in the understanding, regulation and computation of forest growth, and they finish their preparation with a long apprenticeship in the logging woods. They this combine (or should combine) the training and experience of the man of science, the logger, and the business man. They differ in equipment from a good lumberman, practically speaking, chiefly in knowing how to improve the growth and reproduction of forests and to calculate their future yield. On the other hand, really first class foresters must be fairly experienced lumbermen, which, in the older countries is just what they are.

The day will come, then, when all our forest owners, whether government or others, will have turned (or hired) foresters. The neat organizations of Europe, the Ober-förster with his uniformed försters, his cane, and his dachshund, are for the present too neat and expensive, even for our government forests, but the number of those whose trade it is to make forest production continuous, will inevitably increase.

R. T. Fisher.

THE FISHING OF GRAN'SIR BEAN.

Gran'sir Bean stood by the kitchen door pulling on his red woolen wristers, and examining with considerable interest some yellow-green shoots of new grass that had started near the stone doorstep where the sun shone all day. Gran'sir Bean, rising from his breakfast of oatmeal and a great bowl of herb tea, and coming out into the warm sunshine of an April morning, was in an exceedingly genial mood, even for such an invariably goodnatured old gentleman as he, and his mild blue eyes twinkled and danced with keen enjoyment at all about him. When his wristers were comfortably fitted round his bony wrists, he took a cane that stood near the door, and started, rather unsteadily at first, but on the whole pretty briskly, across the road toward the barn, sniffing the air as he went.

"Spring's a-comin'," he said to himself, "spring's a-comin' jest's sure's I'm alive. I can smell it. 'S pretty near time to start ploughin'; I'll tell Henry he better hev the ploughs got out to-day, an' look 'em over. An' then there'll be green stuff a-growin', an' grass, an' leaves, till before you know it, it'll come hayin'-time. Spring's a-comin', an' here I be, ol' Eli Bean, jest's well an' hearty's ever I was, goin' on toward eighty an' tougher'n an ol' he-bear. I tell ye this 's a pretty, darn good world after all, an' I guess I'm 'bout's good's the rest on't."

Having given voice to these modest sentiments, he stopped, when he reached the barnyard, and poked in the earth with his cane to see if the frost was out of the ground. His pokings unearthed a large worm that had been sleeping quietly in its bed until disturbed by the energetic punches of the old man's cane. Gran'sir Bean's eyes sparkled as he saw it.

"Gorry-mighty!" he exclaimed, "jest look at thet!"

"Come here, sonny," he continued, addressing the worm, "don't ye try to git away from your gran'sir."

He stooped laboriously and pawed about in the moist earth, giving little grunts, now and then, at the pain the exertion caused him. Then he

held up the worm between his thumb and finger, and the stern wrinkles in his face changed to a broad grin of pure delight.

"Aint he a buster?" the old man chuckled, "an' would n't he make a neat breakfas' for some ol' trout. Th' say't for every worm th's a fish somewhere. I'd like to see the fish 't'd be a match for this feller. He'd be a whaler, I'll bet ye."

"By the great horn spoon," said Granʼsir Bean, “I b'lieve I'll go a-fishin' this very mornin'. I got's good a mind," he added impressively "to go afishin' as ever I hed t' eat."

He thrust the worm into his pocket, and glanced guiltily toward the house. Seeing his daughter standing in the doorway, watching him, he affected to be deeply absorbed over some cocoons in a knothole of the barnyard fence. He looked slyly at his daughter, all the while, from under his gray, shaggy eyebrows.

"I must n't let 'em know about it over to th' house," he said to himself, "or they'd think I was more of a simpleton 'n they do now, I guess, an' I'll hev to look out for thet boy o' Henry's. He's got eyes sharper'n a link, an' if he saw me a-diggin' worms, he'd surmise th' was suthin' up. He's a pretty cute young feller. Takes arter his gran'sir."

The old man sidled along, keeping hold of the board fence, till he was out of sight of the house; then he dug furiously with the end of his cane and found, at last, a number of pink worms rolled together in a little ball, presumably to keep warm.

"Gorry, what a snarl on 'em!" said Gran'sir Bean, "well, I guess thet'll be enough to ketch every fish in th' brook. Now I'll hev to hev some line. an' hooks an' things. 'Twont never do t' ask Henry's boy to lend me any o' his. I'll hev to buy me some down to Adams's. I won't let on they're for me though. I'll fool him."

Accordingly it was with an expression of deep cunning that Gran'sir Bean, considerably out of breath from his walk, presented himself, some twenty minutes later, at Adams's store, and craftily led the conversation in logical sequence from harrows, through phosphates, to fish-hooks.

"I don't want 'em for myself, ye understan'," he told the store-keeper again and again, "I'm a-gettin' 'em for Henry's boy. 'Goin' to make him a present on 'em. No, I never seen no fish-hooks like them, before; all strung on little wires. Fish can't see 'em ye say? Then they must be a darn sight stupider'n trouts was when I was a boy. Don't think I could tie one o' them hooks to a line to save me. My fingers aint so handy pickin' at strings 's they was once. Don't b'lieve I could manage 'em, nohow. Well, if y' aint got no others, I'll hev to take these, I s'pose, an' do th' best I can with 'em. I haint no confidence in 'em, though. They aint for me, ye understan'. They're for Henry's boy."

Gran'sir Bean started off down the road, chuckling to himself at his own cleverness.

"Well, I be goin' to give 'em to the boy," he said to satisfy his conscience, “arter I'm done with 'em an' providin' th's any of 'em left to give. See thet pesky squirrel. I got a good mind to throw a stun at him. I feel jest like throwin' stuns."

When he was out of sight of the village, he turned and, shading his eyes with his hand, peered anxiously back along the road to make sure no one was coming. Then he struck across the meadow to the brook. The air this morning was soft and warm, and full of the damp, fresh smells of early springtime. Yellow, powdery catkins hung from the willow branches; the buds of the maples and birches were red and swollen. The spirit of spring was over everything, and before long the old man, his lips puckered in a vain attempt to whistle, was almost skipping along, like a boy, and splashing regardlessly through the pools of water left on the meadow by the melting snow. He stopped in a little grove of maple saplings long enough to cut a pole, trim it with hands that trembled excitedly, and fasten on his line and hook; then he tiptoed stealthily down the bank to the edge of the

water.

There was something pathetic in the earnestness with which he threw in his line, and in his disappointment when he drew it out again, after a few moments, and looked dubiously at the hook.

"Can't understan' thet," said Gran'sir Bean, "they us't to take right holt when I was a boy. Can't make out th' meanin' of it nohow,-'less it's them hooks. P'rhaps they're so darn good th' fish can't see 'em, nor the bait nuther. Well, I'll hev to try fu'ther down."

But fortune seemed needlessly unkind that morning, and when, after an hour's wearisome fishing, the old man, tired, wet, and out of sorts, pulled up a tiny trout no bigger than his little finger, he held the fish out in his brown, wrinkled hand, and addressed it in righteous contempt.

"Aint it cur'is," he said fretfully, "what this world's a-comin' to. Fish all one mornin' an' only ketch a leetle mite of a snipe like thet! I tell ye, thet's jest th' way with everythin'. Th' aint no fish nowadays, an' th' aint no men, 'cept one, an' he's so old he don't 'mount to nothin'. What in th' name o' common sense ails the brook? If thet's th' best it can do, it orter be dried up, or dammed up, or suthin."

"You go back in there," he continued to the trout, "an' see if ye can't grow to a man's size. I'll drop in down there by thet log, an' then I'm goin' home. I'm jest about sick on't."

He waded up to his knees in the cold water and swung his line over by the log. There was a quick rush; the pole bent nearly double. Gran'sir Bean pulled with all his might and then sat down squarely in the brook with the water rushing and gurgling about him. He did not try to get up, but threw back his head and laughed shrilly.

"Lord, what an ol' fool I he!" he said at last, "to set here this way. Gorry! aint th' water cold! Thet must ha' been an' ol' roncher to yank my pole like thet. Bet he's pretty near's ol's I be. Baldheaded an' got a gray beard mos' likely. I'll hev him if 't takes a leg."

He rose slowly, and swung his line again; then waited, open-mouthed. This time, when he pulled, something shot over his head and landed with a thump on the grass behind him. The old man scrambled up the bank, knelt upon the fish and bore down with all his weight, while his trembling fingers worked at the hook.

"O ye ol' tiger!" he exclaimed, "aint ye a whale! You're a fish, you