FLY-FISHING. 179 



But the sun is on the edge of the horizon, the fall is 

 bathed in flame, the mill-wheel is hung with rubies, the be- 

 lated crows caw loudly, and the " professor " and the 

 "polka" are dancing on saffron and crimson foam to the 

 strident strains of the cicada's fiddle. What, another rise ? 

 Another Bass, perhaps ! No, it must have been a sw^allow 

 dipping its wing. 



The gentle swish of the supple rod is music sweet as the 

 "professor" and the "polka" follow each other, now in 

 aerial flight, now along the shining water. Egad ! there' s 

 no mistaking that tug ! The reel and the cicada now have 

 it ! The line hisses through the water ! Look out for the 

 sharp rock ! See that blundering bat ! Ah, what a leap ! 

 — how he dashed the golden, crimson rain ! Again the 

 duet— hike shrill cicada and the buzzing reel ! He breaks 

 again, again falls back ! The rod is bending, surging 

 through the air — and now the frogs pipe up — the sun is 

 down — and, bless me ! here's another Bass! 



T step ashore, and string them on a willow wand. The 

 mill-wheel has stopped ; the water tumbles over the fall 

 witii a lonesome sound. The whippoorwill is calling from 

 the cliff. The squirrel is in his nest. The mocking-bird 

 has found his mate. The cows are lowing at the farmer's 

 gate. My patient nag is neighing for her master. "All 

 right, Jenny ! " 



I do not feel so guilty in the gloaming ; and as the first 

 silent star appears, I stop at the little tumble down gate 

 before the cabin of " Old Dave," who " cot de rheumatiz in 

 de fresh' las' spring." 



" Hello ! Aunt Judy. How 's Uncle Dave ? " 



" Howdy, Doctah ! Lor' bress you, honey, de ole man's 

 mitey po'ley — jist kin hobble roun', an' dat 's all. He 



