TROUT. 79 



the songs of feathered choristers made one feel 

 happy, though far away from civilisation. My 

 reverie was broken by a sudden splash ; a speckled 

 tyrant, lurking under the bank on which I sat, 

 had pounced upon a large grey fly that, uncon- 

 scious of danger, had touched the water with its 



o 



gauzy wings. Very well, Master Trout, you may 

 perhaps be as easily duped as your more cautious 

 confreres-, so setting to work, I overhauled my 

 'possible sack,' found a few coarse hooks, a bit of 

 gut, and some thread. 



Among other materials wherewith to make 

 a fly, feathers were indispensable. Shouldering 

 my gun, I strode off to look for a ' white flesher,' 

 alias ruffed grouse ; soon stirred one up, bagged 

 him, hauled out his glossy bottle-green frill; 

 selected some feathers which I thought would 

 turn a decent hackle, picked out a couple of 

 brighter ones for wings, some red wool from 

 my blanket for dubbing, and with these materials 

 I tied a fly. Not the slightest resemblance, fan- 

 cied or real, did it bear to anything ever created, 

 but still it was a fly, and, as I flattered myself, a 

 great achievement. A line was made from some 

 ends of cord ; then cutting a young larch, I made 

 my tackle fast to the end, and thus equipped 

 sallied to the stream. 



