216 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 



Standing in the deep woods by the side of a 

 rushing stream I watched a slender silk line 

 borne down with the current. The line straight- 

 ened. One end was restrained by the tip of 

 my fishing rod, the other end swayed from right 

 to left in a little whirlpool under a miniature 

 waterfall. On the lower end was a barbed 

 hook, on the hook was a writhing worm, and 

 presently on the writhing worm was a strug- 

 gling fish. Tossed to the shore he fell among 

 the nodding ferns and lay under them 011 his 

 side, gasping. He threw himself into the air 

 a few times by a spasmodic contraction of his 

 muscles, and then died. As he lay there among 

 the .ferns, violets, wild lilies of the valley, 

 gleaming checkerberries, and other gayly-tinted 

 groundwork of the forest, he outshone them all. 

 White, gray, yellow, orange, red, green, blue, 

 brown, and black, all shared in his brilliant 

 coloring. His beauty was not all in tints. Plis 

 outlines were graceful and suggestive of speed. 

 His fins, delicate and wonderful structures in 

 themselves, were so placed as to give him marvel- 

 lous powers of motion and control of direc- 

 tion. A moment before he had had not only 

 beauty and speed but intelligence. The cun- 

 ning and wariness of the trout are proverbial. 

 But he was dead, and I went on down the 

 stream for an hour, catching and killing more 



