THE L URE. 135 



grass to their knees ; the nutritious mountain grass, 

 the mother of cream so thick that you have to dip it 

 out of the jug with a spoon. The ponies were happy, 

 and I became nervous ; it seemed half an hour before 

 I could get my tackle rigged. But after I had sent my 

 favorite gray hackle on its mission and had snatched 

 a ten-inch trout from his native element, my nerves 

 were braced. A second and a third followed ; I heard 

 nothing from Ferguson except the " swish ? ' of his old 

 cane pole above the music of the waters. The trout 

 struck and I landed them so fast that the sport began 

 to be monotonous, and I followed up the sound of the 

 cane. Going round a clump of willows I discovered the 

 old gentleman upon the edge of the pool, and that old 

 rod going up and down with the regularity of a trip 

 hammer, the owner combining business and sport. I 

 asked him what he was doing ; he said he was fishing, 

 and I thought he was. 



Wandering up stream, taking it leisurely, I had by 

 noon filled my creel, and was enjoying a sandwich 

 under the shelter of some willows, when my companion 

 came along with his sixteen pound lard-can filled, be- 

 sides a dozen upon a stick. I asked him when he in- 

 tended to quit. He said he had never seen fish "bite" 

 so; he hated to stop, and yet had all he could carry, 

 but concluded with me that enough was as good as a 

 feast. Then he began to banter me about my ash and 

 lancewood, and the excess of his catch over mine. I 

 told him to wait till some other day. It came in the 



