238 FISHING WITH THE FLY. 



" By deeds our lives shall measured be, 

 And not by length of days," 



then a perfect life has been lived by many a noble trout 

 whose years have been few, but who, caught by the fish- 

 er's lure (to which he was predestined, as aforesaid), 

 has leaped into the air and shaken the sparkling drops 

 from his purple, golden, crimson, graceful form and 

 struggled to be free, to the intense delight of the artist 

 who brought him to the basket, where he belonged. 



Thus resting, and floating apparently between the 

 translucent crystal and the blue ether, silent, I have 

 felt the presence of a spirit who inspires one with pure 

 thoughts of matters far above the affairs of daily life 

 and toil, of the universe and what lies beyond the blue 

 sky, and of the mind and soul of man, and his future 

 after death. 



I love the mountains, and the meadows, and the 

 woods. 



Later satisfied, but not satiated, with fair provision 

 of corn, and wine, and oil, and my creel well filled, the 

 shadows lengthen and the day begins to die. 



Some day I shall hear no more forever the birds sing 

 in the sylvan shade. My eyes will no more behold the 

 woods I love so well. For the last time my feet will 

 slowly tread this woodland road, and I shall watch for 

 the last time the changing shadows made by the clouds 

 upon the hillsides. 



There will come a time when the setting sun will 

 paint the west as the bridegroom colors the cheek of 



