
Below McLarney’s Bridge, Looking 
canopy of sky above you, watching the 
wind waving the trees, and the sunlight 
flitting and flashing through their high 
tufted tops, like rare thoughts through 
a poet’s mind, listening to the drowsy 
hum of bees, and the liquid tones of the 
stream, keeping time with the motions 
of swaying flags and drooping alders, 
the weary muscles regain their elasticity 
and the flagging nerves pick up their 
tension. The scenes of the morning 
pass in imaginative review, then fade 
away, like dissolving views, to be re- 
placed by anticipations that limber one 
up for the afternoon’s sport. 
To most anglers, perhaps, the after- 
noon’s fishing would be but a repetition 
of the morning; but to him, who has an 
eye to the beautiful and variety in Na- 
ture, there is norepetition. The stream 
has new windings, new riffles, eddies, 
and smooth stretches, flowing over bot- 
toms of widely varying character. The 
scenes along the banks please the eye 
North. 
and sense with other varieties of trees, 
shrubs, and aquatic plants, and the air 
is perfumed by the fragrant petals of 
other flowers. The sunlight and cloud 
shadows are continually changing, and 
the soft cooling winds that hug the 
stream, and ruffle the still water, bear 
upon one from other points of the com- 
pass as the day advances. Amid these 
ever new environments the angler is 
tempted to continue his wading and 
casting, oblivious of Time's fleeting mo- 
ments, till by chance, over his shoulders, 
he sees the blush of evening suffusing 
the cheek of the western sky, the sun 
casting shimmering rays athwart the 
stream, and laying long shadows across 
the deep pools, indications that the day 
is nearly done. A few more hurried 
casts finishes the sport. Itis with great 
reluctance that the angler leaves the 
stream, in whose caresses he has spent 
the greater portionof the day, so fondly 
is he wedded to the sport, and so se- 
