TROUT. Us, 
the songs of feathered choristers made one feel 
happy, though far away from civilisation. My 
reverie was broken by a sudden splash; a speckled 
tyrant, lurking under the bank on which I sat, 
had pounced upon a large grey fly that, uncon- 
scious of danger, had touched the water with its 
gauzy wings. Very well, Master Trout, you may 
perhaps be as easily duped as your more cautious 
confreres; so setting to work, I overhauled my 
‘possible sack,’ found a few coarse hooks, a bit of 
gut, and some thread. 
Among other materials wherewith to make 
a fly, feathers were indispensable. Shouldering 
my gun, I strode off to look for a ‘ white flesher,’ 
alias ruffed grouse; soon stirred one up, bagged 
him, hauled out his glossy bottle-green frill; 
selected some feathers which I thought would 
turn a decent hackle, picked out a couple of 
brighter ones for wings, some red wool from 
my blanket for dubbing, and with these materials 
I tied a fly. Not the slightest resemblance, fan- 
cied or real, did it bear to anything ever created, 
but still it was a fly, and, as I flattered myself, a 
great achievement. A line was made from some 
ends of cord; then cutting a young larch, I made 
my tackle fast to the end, and thus equipped 
sallied to the stream. 
