94 FISHING WITH THE FLY. 



line. There in the extreme northwestern corner of 

 Maine it nestles in the bosom of the wilderness, a per- 

 fect gem in its matchless setting of forest-clad hills. 

 Not even a ripple from the storm of life breaks on its 

 pebbly shores, or mars the perfect reflection of the 

 heaven above in its mirror-like surface. As the mariner 

 struggling in the grasp of winter's icy blast, his very life 

 trembling in the balance, looks to the distant port ; as 

 the pious Mussulman, lost in the immensity of the des- 

 ert, turns toward Mecca as the last hope of his fainting 

 soul, so from the worry and turmoil of city life turns 

 my heart to thee, beloved Lake ! 



Seldom has it been my good fortune to have such fishing, 

 for the trout were not only superabundant, but of good 

 size and appetite, and with every muscle beneath their 

 iridescent skins braced with the vigor of perfect health. 



No true angler kills fish to waste, and such John and 

 I aspire to be. So it has been our practice for years, 

 where circumstances permit, to make a small pond in- 

 to which we place all the sizeable fish we take. In the 

 quiet noonday hour on its margin we build our little 

 fire and eat our frugal lunch, and then while away an 

 hour or two in perfect idleness and content, admiring 

 the matchless beauty of our captives in their crystal 

 prison. When, brother Angler, it is within your power, 

 try this ; and if the love of nature inspires you, as it 

 must if you are worthy the name, the hours passed upon 

 the margin of your little preserve will be a bright spot 

 in your memory for many a year. 



