214 FISHING WITH THE FLY. 



As the balsam-breathing night wind begins to blow, 

 I turn my back upon the silver glancing of the moon- 

 light on the rippling waves of the fairy lake, and step 

 bravely into the darkness of the woods, where I cannot 

 see the places where my foot shall fall, but I know that 

 others have safely passed it before, and that I shall find 

 comfort and home at the end. 



Note. — " Description of a day on Balsam Lake (headwaters of 

 the Beaverkill) where no house was ever built. From the lake it is 

 two miles through the woods (about ten miles in the dark) to the 

 nearest house."— Extract from letter accompanying article. 



