THE AMERICAN GRAYLING. 363 



"What's the matter with you now?" I rephed, hastily rais- 

 ing my own rod from the thwarts. "Seems to me that a 

 man who could coolly comment upon the formation of the 

 rocks, while running the 'Devil's Elbow,' needn't make such 

 a beastly row about a pound Grayling." 



"He's nigher two pounds than one — look at him now — no 

 he ain't either;" for another leap of the fish showed that it 

 was hooked back of the gills, and my friend more coolly than 

 at first, proceeded to draw his prize nearer the boat, and 

 within reach of the landing-net. 



"Not as big as I thought, but isn't he a beauty.'* Somehow, 

 the first one always excites me — I can't help it." 



Meanwhile, I had cast a pair of hackles, red and gray, and 

 soon had hooked a fish, while John was playing a pair of 

 them upon the other side of the boat. In a few minutes we 

 had secured half a dozen, ranging from half a pound to a 

 pound in weight. We could clearly see the fish against the 

 bottom of yellow sand, and decided that there were none 

 larger in the school. 



We therefore raised the anchor, and taking up the paddles, 

 floated down the stream. So clear was the water that we 

 could see nearly every object which it contained, and now 

 and then, as we passed a pool, a school of Grayling would 

 scurry away to seek better cover. 



The current grew more rapid, and as we alternately made 

 casts, one fishing while the other steered, we found that 

 John's four-ounce rod was rather too light for this rapid 

 stream. I was using a ten-ounce rod, of English make — an 

 old favorite — and had less difficulty in bringing my fish to 

 the net. 



Near the head of a short rapid, John, who had changed his 

 flies for a coachman and a professor, hooked a big fellow, 

 and I held the boat with a setting-pole, while the fish made 

 a determined effort to get to the bottom. Unsuccessful in 

 this piece of strategy, he made one or two leaps, the great 



