324 



The American Angler. 



strike your match once — it doesn't 

 catch. You strike it twice — it doesn't 

 catch. You strike it three times — and 

 you have your fire, all right. " 



Thinking- to upset Jim's theory on 

 the spot, I took out a fresh cigar and 

 said I'd try, and I was willing to bet 

 ten dollars that I could fetch the fire 

 with the first sweep of the match across 

 the seat of my trousers — but I couldn't, 

 and I didn't. The third time, the fire 

 came. 



"There! What did I tell you," tri- 

 umphantly exclaimed Jim. "You 

 thought you coidd, but you couldn't. 

 Your luck wouldn't let you. Now, its 

 all the same with fly-casting. You just 

 watch me. When I get up a trout at 

 the first cast and don't hook him, I'm 

 always sure to miss him at the second 

 cast, but the third time he's as good as 

 in my basket." 



"Land sakes! what a fish!" For 

 there was a tremendous splash just 

 above us under the alders, where the 

 shadows of night were still lingering 

 deepest along the overhanging bank, 

 and we both made our way as rapidly 

 as possible to the scene. Jim got the 

 first cast. The fish rose with a fine 

 swirl, but Jim pulled just a little too 

 quick. He cast again — carefully, oh! 

 so carefully — and got a rise, but no 

 fish. With the third cast, there was a 

 mighty splash, such as makes the fish- 

 erman's heart leap and his legs tremble, 

 and the beauty was soon in Jim's 

 basket. "Didn't I tell you?" said he. 

 ' ' You laugh at luck. What are you a 

 fisherman for? Don't you know about 

 a ' fisherman's luck? ' Oh, yes, you do, 

 but you haven't learned how to turn it 

 toward you and how you can turn it 

 away from you, that's all. An' you'd 

 better learn soon, my young friend, if 

 you want to have any luck a fishin'." 



We had a pleasant day, and when in 

 the gathering gloom of the evening we 

 slowly wended our way to the farmer's 

 house at the foot of the mountain, Jim 

 insisted that he had had good luck that 

 day, but that if "he'd a gone back after 

 his pipe in the morning without making 

 a ring in the road, and so breaking the 

 charm, he wouldn't have caught a fish. " 



"I believe," said I, "if I were to 

 live with you a week I'd be as supersti- 

 tious as an old woman. I'd see a spook 

 behind every tree. I suppose you 

 believe in spooks, too, as well as in 

 signs. They generally go together." 



"Well," said he, "I've seen some 

 mighty queer things in that line, but I 

 don't care aboiit talking of them just 

 now." 



"Getting too dark for that, isn't it 

 Jimmy ? You seem to be half afraid 

 Old Nick himself might come peeping 

 out from behind some black stump in 

 the woods yonder." 



But Jim seemed disinclined to such 

 conversation, and we trudged along in 

 the narrow road that ran through a 

 wood, each busy with his own silent 

 thoughts, or more probably thinking of 

 the good supper awaiting us at the 

 farmer's house. 



In the gathering darkness an owl 

 flew from one side of the wood to the 

 other, and Jim at once called my 

 attention to the fact that the bird had 

 flown "to our left. " 



' ' Very likely because the mouse he 

 was after happened to be on that side 

 of the road," said I. 



" Well, it's a bad sign," insisted Jim. 



' ' Bad for the mouse, no doubt, " 

 laughed I. 



"All right," said he, "you just wait 

 and see." 



The ill-omened bird, albeit "wise 

 Minerva's only fowl," had brought us 



