4 The American Angler 
the echo from the woody glen; the 
leaping fish, that sends bright circling 
wavelets to the shore, excites his ang- 
ling passion as he nears the point of 
actual contact with the water, and his 
restive spirit brooks no delay in prepar- 
ation for the sport. His heart beats 
wildly in his breast as, in vivid 1magi- 
nation, he sees the veiled goddess of 
the stream beckoning him to her side 
with dimpled hand and coquettish smile. 
Still the preparation for the sport is not 
without emotional significance. The 
joining of the rod, the mounting of the 
reel and line, and the selection of the 
flies, have each a magnetic vibration 
that runs through every nerve; but the 
slinging of the creel to your side is the 
touch of the electric button that sends 
one off to the stream with winged feet. 
The enthusiastic angler hastens to 
enter the stream at the earliest possible 
moment after his arrival upon its bank; 
dashing into the live and laughing cur- 
rent with a boldness that does not 
hesitate. He delights to get into the 
closest possible relations with the stream 
he fishes, and so wades its uncertain 
depths with a confidence that does not 
wink, and a step that does not falter. 
And as the limpid water purrs about 
his legs, in its rapid flow, he feels a 
consciousness of being in the embrace 
of something he loves. He woos it with 
a passionate fondness, and stays with it 
till he has learned all its hidden secrets. 
He laughs with the ripples and eddies, 
and meditates along the deep, smooth 
stretches, while casting the gossamer 
leader and feathery lure into shadowy 
nooks, below sunny rapids, over foam- 
flecked eddies and on silent pools. Fly 
fishing is said to be the poetry of ang- 
ling, and though there is a fascinating 
uncertainty in it, yet a thrill of expecta- 
tion accompanies every cast. The swish 
of the line, the hissing of the flies 
through the air, and the click of the 
unwinding reel, chime with the purling 
music of the water, awakening a har- 
mony in the soul of the angler that 
makes the moment truly gladsome. 
To the angler, wholly absorbed in his 
pursuit, plying his rod and line, and 
taking now and then a fish, the morning 
hours pass swiftly, and almost uncon- 
sciously, away, aS passes a night of 
slumber with pleasant dreams, and he is 
only aroused from his reverie by the 
sound of the farmer housewife’s wind- 
ing dinner horn from across the fields, 
whenan upward glance skyward reveals 
to him the sun approaching meridian; 
and at once visions of the sandwiches 
and cold chicken, hidden away in the 
lunch box, flits through his mind. Those 
of you who have never partaken of a 
noon hour lunch on the grassy banks of — 
the Outlet, beneath vine clad trees, 
whose drooping branches spread a check- 
ered umbrage overhead, with the green 
swarded ground serving asa table, have 
yet a delightful experiencc in store that 
is worth while to embrace. ‘There you 
sit, with uncovered head, in the gracious 
lap of Mother Earth, and share with 
your companion the blessings from 
her hands. How refreshing the gentle 
breeze that comes creeping over the 
water, cooling the sweat-stained brow; 
and how wholesome the woody frag- 
rance borne upon its wings. Hunger 
lurks in every crevice of your body as 
the basket is opened and the viands 
spread out before you; every morsel has 
a distinct relish, and a drink of water 
from a near-by spring is grateful. After 
lunch, to most anglers, comes the restful 
friendly pipe; and as the vapory wreaths 
curl above your head and vanish in the 
air, as you lie stretched upon the cool 
grass-covered earth, the cloud specked 
