THE AMERICAN TROUT. 27 
front of the roots that fringe the bank, still not a sign ; 
a step forward — the water carries it under the bank out 
of sight. I stand still, expectant ; nothing yet ; I creep 
cautiously to the very bank, and thrust my rod in the 
water, aye, under the bank its full length. What's that ! 
Ah ! what a tug ! I have him, the monster, the Giant 
Despair of the wayfaring herring. How he pulls ! I 
must have him out of his retreat ; it is a great risk but 
my only chance. I strain my rod, my line, almost my 
arms, to the utmost ; he comes, disdainful of surreptitious 
advantages, relying on his great strength ; he has not 
taken protection of weed or stump. E'ow, my boy, 
do your utmost ; yes, leap from the water, dart down 
with the current ; I must give to you a little ; no line 
can stand that strain ; but you will never reach your 
lair again. Turn about, head up stream, that is what I 
want ; there is a sandy bank above us, can I but reach 
it and land you there. Ah ! you perceive the danger or 
have changed your mind ; how you fly down stream 
with the slackened line hissing through the water behind 
you. Well, go, you will soon turn again. Already, 
beautiful, you have passed the bank ; now, rod, be true ; 
line, do your duty. The pliant ash bends, the uj)per 
joint has passed below the but in a wide hoop. He 
comes, his head is up ; if I can but keep it out of water ! 
he dashes the foaming waves with his strong tail ; one 
more effort ; bend rod, but do not break ; he is out of 
water ; I have him. He is dancing on the yellow sand 
his last dance in mortal form ; his changing hues glancing 
in the mild light, his fierce mouth gasping, his bright 
sides befouled with sand and dust, his glittering scales 
