It has been a spell since we sampled the goods delivered by the rain-snow-mud-traveling Bill, the postman:

H.G. GUION, RD 2, Litchfield, Conn., 85 years, details a fairly recent Maine fishing experience. First, I should tell you, Mr. Guion is an out-and-out, catch-and-release advocate and looks upon meat or bait fishing with the same enthusiasm as the late Pearl of Her Sex confronted a full plate of tripe.

“My most recent visit to Maine fishing waters confirms my belief that if trout and salmon are to ever again prosper, the immediate need is for regulations that call for fly rod fishing, smaller creel limits and larger size catches. Now there, call me a pointy-headed conservationist who does not know much about fishing.

“A year ago, I sojourned at one of Maine’s better known fishing camps. My guide was competent and genial, and for $125 a day, he should have been. He put me over my best fish, a 14-inch brook trout that weighed about one pound, although upon netting the fish, he exclaimed that I’d caught a 16-inch, 2-pounder. The remainder of my day’s catch were fingerlings that came to a dry fly. Last Semptember at another well-known sporting camp in the same general region, there was a day at Parmachenee Lake. As at Kennebago, earlier the same season, the guide was enthusiastic and tried hard and produced a 14-inch trout for me to hook, net, and release. My colleague with me on the trip took his first landlocked salmon, a 9-incher. At this camp, most were `meat fishermen,’ employing for the most part spin tackle and `hardware.’

“We cast hard at Parmachenee without raising a fish.

“I am certain I will not live to see Maine fishing what it was when I went to Sournahunk, Musquacook, Fish River Lake, Pierce Pond going back to 1951, the beginning of my Maine fishing days. I am suggesting that Maine must clamp down on `meat fishermen’ if what remains of trout and salmon are not to become, if not already, an endangered species.”

Those are the gospel words of an 85-year gentleman, boys and girls.

PERCY CRICHLOW of Hamilton, Mass., who calls himself one of Maine’s “summer soldiers,” asserts that I should give my attention to the matter of handling wildlife, thus increasing the chances of rabies exposure.

He writes: “Despite efforts to educate the public about the dangers of rabies, people continue to pick up or attempt caring for orphaned animals. Rabies is a disease that attacks the central nervous system and is passed from animal to animal through bites. It is found most often in raccoons, woodchucks, skunks, foxes and other carnivores. Animals can transmit the virus to a person through bites, scratches and licks to open wounds and cuts. One can also get it if the animal’s nerve tissue or saliva comes in contact with cuts or the mucous membranes of the nose, eyes or mouth.”

Mr. Crichlow suggests that I again tell you that if you see any wild animal, look but don’t touch. He is quite correct when he tells me that the temptation is too great to pick up what appears to be an orphaned animal. Therefore, protect yourself and your family from rabies by leaving wild creatures alone.

BEN CRAIG, the Bard of Bucksport, never fails to give me a good start on any bummer of a day when I read his mind under a 29-cent stamp.

Since there has been a steady Maine population move to Alaska and will continue so this month, The Bard’s professorial account of son Benny’s doings make for excellent breakfast cereal.

“Due to the Japanese current, the climate in Kodiak is much milder than it is in downtown Bucksport. But oftentimes, the lakes do freeze over and, according to Benny, Alaskans rush out and chop huge holes in the ice, using axes and garden hoes. It’s hard work, according to Benny, because Alaskans do their ice fishing by laying down alongside the hole and selectively snatch the right size and weight fish when it passes buy. You understand, I hope, that there are so many fish there under the ice they’re easier picking than a quart of blueberries in somebody’s patch in Washington County. Anyway, when son Benny wants a fish in the wintertime for the family table, he plucks one or two from the litter with his bare hands. If I ever again take up ice fishing, that’s the way I’d like it done.”

The Bard of Bucksport needs not to knock at the door when he shows at my place.

ROMEO J. CYR, 84, a native of Old Town, has gone to the resting place of fine players. You likely never knew Romeo, but the good folk in Springfield, Mass., were close to this kind, gentle man.

In his youth, Romeo was an extraordinary athlete. On leaving Old Town, he became one of Springfield’s prized citizens, serving the community as a member of the park commission, city school committee, planning boards, and was the recipient of several distinguished community service awards.

Chris Gallagher, RFD 1, Bar Harbor, thoughtfully reminds me of Romeo’s contributions to mankind and the community. Romeo’s finest hours were those 40 years when he spearheaded Springfield’s recreation facilities and various programs.

The long-ago Old Towner became an icon in the eyes of Springfield folk, a gem of a human being and, uppermost, a grand old gentleman.

JOSEPH A. TALBOT SR., 15 Mathew John Ave., Camden, and there’s a name with a place in the life of an unwritten book about life at Moosehead Lake. I lost Joe years ago. He moved to Colorado or some other foreign country other than Camden, Moosehead and a thousand and one other places where the good fishing days were born day-after-day.

Joe wasn’t long in discovering that Moosehead no longer is the fishing paradise of days of yore. He writes: “Things have certainly changed at Moosehead Lake. I think the biologists erred when they said the lake was self-supporting and did not need stocking. Not only has the fishing gone downhill, but the salmon has changed. The old-time salmon and the appearance of today’s landlock has a different look, I feel. Size and looks have really changed. And as you and I can recall, more than a few wheelbarrow loads of salmon and trout were wheeled home to the neighbors and usually, they’d ask, `Are they cleaned?’ Hey, what to hell, you and me can remember those glorious days at Spencer Bay, Wilson’s, Maynard’s, Oz Fahey’s, and a dozen other favorite hand-outs, right?”

Right. Remember, Joe, tempus fugits.