192 FISHING WITH THE FLY. 



rest, and, tired as a hound, slept the sleep of the just 

 man. 



At 4 o'clock the next morning I was on the stream 

 again, feeling my way carefully down, catching a trout 

 at eyery cast, and putting them mostly back with care, 

 that they might live ; but for an hour no sign of a 

 fresh-run river trout. 



Below the bridge there is a meadow, the oldest 

 clearing on the creek ; there are trees scattered about 

 this meadow that are models of arborial beauty, black 

 walnut, elm, ash, birch, hickory, maple, etc. Most of 

 them grand, spreading trees. One of them, a large, 

 umbrageous yellow-birch, stood on the left bank of the 

 stream, and was already in danger of a fall by 



"The swifter current that mined its roots." 



It was here I met them on the June rise. 



I dropped my cast of two flies just above the roots of 

 the birch, and on the instant, two fresh-run, silver- 

 sided, red-spotted trout immolated themselves, with a 

 generous self-abnegation that I shall never forget. 



Standing there on that glorious June morning, I 

 made cast after cast, taking, usually, two at each cast. 

 I made no boyish show of "playing" them. They 

 were lifted out as soon as struck. To have fooled with 

 them would have tangled me, and very likely have scat- 

 tered the school. 



It was old-time angling ; I shall not see it again. 



My cast was a red hackle for tail-fly, with something 



