CHAPTER XI.

Trout Streams of Berlin. The Peach Orchard.

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Over northwest of Belcher's tavern springs a stream of water called Belcher's brook. This stream runs northerly, nearly parallel with the "Old road," into Old Fly and out again— farther north winding about a little, so that the railroad crosses it twice; thence onward—always in sight of the dwelling houses—across Norton Street, west of Lower Lane, on through the pasture where Aunt Abby Pattison's cows used to drink, and where the herons stand on one leg, in meditation, wondering where Aunt Abby and her house and her cows have gone. Still onward the stream runs to a point west, and midward, of the Lower Lane extension, where it takes a turn about, and goes south a little way as if to take a parting look at itself; then it winds toward the north again; turns eastward, runs under the "South bridge," and about four hundred feet farther, into the lot recently sold by Francis Deming. Here the big Mattabessett, just in from under the "North bridge," makes a swoop southerly, opens its mouth, and takes in the little Belcher brook, at the finish of its four-mile race.

The springs from which Blue Hills brook has its source in Kensington are on the Norris Peck farm now owned by his son, Langdon J. Peck.

Running north, this stream crosses the road, east of Blue Hills schoolhouse corner. Dr. Brandegee, when driving over this road, used always to let his horse stop and drink. He said horses would drink there, whether they were thirsty or not, the water was so sweet.

East of the stream, on the north side of that road, was once a large white house, for many years the dwelling of Deacon Asaph Smith and his wife, who was known familiarly as "Aunt Abby Smith." On account of some dissatisfaction at home they used to come over this side to church. The white-topped carriage,

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in which they drove on Sundays, is still remembered. That was back in the forties. After the death of her husband in 1865, Mrs. Smith purchased the house on Berlin Street now owned by Mrs. Wm. B. Pierce.

By economy she accumulated a considerable property, which caused her much anxious thought, as to its disposition. She made so many wills that she learned to draw her own. Once she bequeathed several hundred dollars to the Worthington Ecclesiastical Society, but when she detected what she considered a growing tendency to extravagance in dress of the church members and in the conduct of church affairs she revoked that bequest. She used to say that she never in all her life had a dress that cost over fifty cents a yard. She kept her place as neat as a pin, by the labor of her own hands. The village school children were greatly amused when they saw her, seated in a rocking chair, painting her front fence.

Blue Hills brook keeps on its way, northeasterly, through Kensington, until near the home of the Misses Bauer; there it turns due east, crosses the road, bounds the north side of a pasture owned by heirs of the late James B. Keed, and joins Belcher brook at a point about four hundred feet southwesterly from the Lower Lane bridges.

Any boy within a radius of a mile will direct you to the famous "Swimming hole" a short distance away, in the Matta-bessett. You will see the boy, a dozen of him, the first hot day next summer, on his way there, with a towel, and perchance a piece of soap, bulging his pocket, and you may hear his screams of laughter, as you pass along the road by the Bridge Cemetery.

A short distance east of the springs, at the head of Blue Hills brook, on the same Morris Peck farm, are other springs—the source of a third stream, called "Crooked Brook." This stream goes northeasterly through Kensington and crosses the Parish line south of "^Norton's Pond" so called, where it furnished power for the saw mill that was burned in the fall of 1905.

Thence the current is swift, eastward, to a point back of the Samuel Durand farm, now owned by Huber Bushnell. There it joins Belcher brook.

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In Mr. Thomas's lot on a few rods farther north is a pool called "Silver Hole," where the children love to bathe in summer time. Many years ago this pool was a favorite resort of Sylvia Norton, and it was named for her, "Sylvia Hole."

The water of Crooked brook, like that of Blue Hills brook, is singularly pure and sweet. There is nothing finer in this part of the country. Its fall is rapid, and it would seem to be a simple question of mechanical engineering to bring that water to Worthington Street.

Section 2527 of the Connecticut statutes, 1884, reads as follows:

The sum of three thousand dollars is hereby appropriated for the artificial propagation of fish in the waters of this State.

The Legislature of 1905 appropriated, for the two years ending September 30, 1907, eight thousand dollars, for propagation of game and fish, with the additional sum of three thousand dollars for care and repair of state fish hatcheries, and all property of the state connected with the propagation of fish. Any one wishing to stock a brook or a pond with fish can obtain the young fry by application to the State Fish Commissioner.

Blue Hills brook and Crooked brook are natural trout streams, but the stock is kept up and improved by yearly additions of young trout from the state hatcheries.

The Indians could catch fish Sunday or any other day of the week, wherever they pleased, but we have not that privilege, and a breakfast of trout, caught from one of these streams, might prove an expensive luxury.

Section one of Chapter 199 of the public acts of 1903, as amended by Legislature May 20, 1905, reads as follows:

Every person who shall throw down or leave open any bars, gate, or fence upon the land of another without permission of the owner, occupant, or person in charge thereof for the purpose of hunting, trapping, fishing, or taking or destroying the nests or eggs of birds, or bee hunting, or gathering nuts, fruits, or berries .... shall be fined not more than fifty dollars or imprisoned not more than thirty days, or both.

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The possession by any person while trespassing upon the land of another, of a gun, dog, ferret, or fish rod shall be deemed prima facie evidence of his intention of hunting or fishing thereon.

Section two of the same act provides that:

The owner, occupant or person in charge of the land or such person as he may command to assist him may arrest any person who violates any of the provisions of the preceding section and forthwith take him before some proper prosecuting officer who shall proceed to try such person.

William H. Gibney is the special protective officer for Berlin, appointed by the fish and game warden of Hartford county.

At a distance of a mile or so west of Earl Cooley's, the road, which leads to Kensington, is crossed by Crooked brook, there about a mile away from its head springs.

In April, 1895, a company of business men, known as "The Kensington Fish and Game Club," whose office is at Hartford, purchased a tract of land bordering this stream.

Now, by additional purchase through Mr. John Norton, their agent at Berlin, they own most of the way on both sides of the brook, for the length of a mile, extending north from the Kensington road, and besides this, they have leased land for half a mile farther down the stream.

As one good result of this ownership, the banks of Crooked brook will not be despoiled by the wood-cutter, and while notices everywhere warn trespassers, we may feast our eyes on the mosses, the maiden hair ferns, and—well—only a poet could fittingly describe the beauties of Crooked brook and its "sylvan slopes."

Turning eastward from the brook we rise a hill and come up onto the plains of Berlin, once covered with rattle boxes, now the property of the Connecticut Valley Orchard Company. This company was formed May 14, 1884, under the late John B. Smith as organizer and president Mr. Smith, with his usual foresight, saw the possibilities of that sandy, barren plain, and by his advice the company purchased two hundred and forty-three acres there, to be used as a fruit orchard. For quick returns peaches were at first the main dependence.

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Now, if you care to count the trees, you will find 3,000 apples, 10,000 peaches, 1,000 plums, 500 pears, and 250 cherries. Of grapes there are 1,000 vines. Truly the desert has been made to blossom as the rose.

The life of a fruit grower is one of eternal vigilance. Yellows made no end of trouble with the peaches. A blight came over the quinces, and now the fight is on with the San Jose scale, with possibly the Gypsy and Brown Tail moth later.

In 1905 this property was transferred to J. T. Molumphy, who is now president, manager and chief stockholder of the business.

A walk across the fields north of the peach orchard brings us to "Cranberry Marsh" curiously set, like a great basin, on that high ground, little lower than the sandy plain above. Hills are on every side. There is no inlet, no outlet to the marsh. Near the western bank is a little lake of clear water, said to be fathomless. Who knows but here is the "lost crater." All about the marsh is a dense thicket, where high bush huckleberries grow. Cranberry vines creep everywhere over the mossy bogs. From pools, here and there, a greedy pitcher plant lifts its rosette of cups. Women, in their craze for this queer side-saddle flower, have been known to follow from bog to bog, all the way across the marsh, but this is a dangerous undertaking. A mis-step might swamp one to the neck, and worse.

Should you visit this interesting place, as the children say, "keep your eyes peeled" for snakes—blacksnakes, rattlesnakes, and red adders. Great place for snakes! and there are lots of hornets' nests there, too.