FLY-FISHING. 177 



buckskin bag, in which was a small click-reel with its line 

 of enameled silk. From a pocket of my professional coat 

 I brought to the light of day what, ostensibly, purported to 

 be a prescription book, but in reality was a book of flies ! 



How guilty I felt ! What an arrant humbug I was ! But 

 there was no time for moralizing — I just heard the splash 

 of another Bass ! I soon had rod and reel, line and leader 

 together, and a " polka " and a " professor " were soon 

 dancincr over the Avater to<>;ether ' 



I had stepped from bowlder to bowlder, in the shadow of 

 the cliff, until I had reached a vantage point at the foot and 

 edge of the riffle, with the sun in my face and broken water 

 all around me. I knew of half a dozen deep holes and 

 sheltered eddies within the length of my cast, from which I 

 would be completely hidden by two jagged rocks that rose 

 in front of me, half as high as my head. 



Then like a guilty thing I began casting in ever-widening 

 circles — all the time pretending to watch the play of the 

 sunshine on the water, or the blackbird that Avas drinking 

 at the verge of the stream. 



Then I saw a swirl behind the gray bowlder — but pre- 

 tended to be listening to a squirrel barking at me from 

 the projecting limb of a hickory, Avhose glossy, green leaves 

 were just touched with the faintest suspicion of old gold. 



Then I made another cast as straight as the maple boll 

 behind me. The flies dropped just over and beyond the 

 smooth, gray bowlder, and as they were drawn into its eddy 

 the " polka" disappeared, and something seemed to lift the 

 water just there for an instant, and then — what a lively 

 staccato to that kingfisher's rattle ! 



But, bless my soul ! it is my reel that is giving so merry 

 a hum ! I must stop that. Then, as I follow the erratic 



