THE HALCYON IN CANADA. 231 



ice at fly-fishing, he never having cast a fly till upon 

 this trip. 



Again he called out to me, but deceived by his 

 coolness and nonchalant tones, and by the lethargy of 

 the fish, I gave little heed. I knew very well that if 

 I had struck a fish that held me down in that way I 

 should have been going through a regular war-dance 

 on that circle of bowlder-tops, and should have scared 

 the game into activity, if the hook had failed to wake 

 him up. But as the farce continued I drew near. 



" Does that look like a stone or a log ? " said my 

 friend, pointing to his quivering line, slowly cutting 

 the current up toward the centre of the pool. 



My skepticism vanished in an instant, and I could 

 hardly keep my place on the top of the rock. 



" I can feel him breathe," said the now warming 

 fisherman ; " just feel of that pole ? " 



I put my eager hand upon the butt and could 

 easily imagine I felt the throb or pant of something 

 alive down there in the back depths. But whatever 

 it was moved about like a turtle. My companion 

 was praying to hear his reel spin, but it gave out 

 now and then only a few hesitating clicks. Still the 

 utuation was excitingly dramatic, and we were all 

 actors. I rushed for the landing-net, but being un- 

 able to find it, shouted desperately for Joe, who came 

 hurrying back, excited before he had learned what 

 the matter was. The net had been left at the lake 

 below, and must be had with the greatest dispatch. 

 \n the mean tune, I skipped about from bowlder to 



