THE LURE. 141 



hanging over the range, the wind comes down chill 

 from the heights, and the morning sun lights up my 

 castles and pinnacles in diadems of new-fallen snow, 

 I say we must be off. We gather together our lares of 

 nomadic life, and with a regretful farewell to those I 

 cannot bring away, we make the journey home, a better 

 man and woman, with a nut-brown, healthy boy, for 

 much of which I give credit to the artificial fly, and 

 the beautiful denizens of the mountain streams. 



