298 FISHING WITH THE FLY. 



me the wild excitement of that driving, whirling ride 

 through the racing, seething waters. Hatless I crouch 

 down in the boat, one hand clutching the gunwale of 

 the broad river craft, and the other holding aloft my 

 rod. I give no thought to the possible fate of the 

 occupants of the boat. My anxiety is for the fish. 

 When the curved line is straight again, will I feel the 

 bass at the end or only the bare flies ? These very flies ! 



Very soon the boat is rocking in the lumpy water at 

 the foot of the chute, and I stand up, fill my lungs, and 

 find my fish are still fast. Here in the broad water I 

 bring to net three small-mouthed bass that together 

 weigh four and one-quarter pounds, only one of which, 

 at any time, showed himself above water. As I put 

 the faded flies back into their paper coverings I find 

 that my pulse has quickened and my pipe no longer burns. 



I must not exhibit all my treasures here, to the 

 public. These old souvenirs are only for the eyes of 

 sympathizing angling friends when me meet to blow a 

 cloud and talk of other days. 



A little brown-eyed maiden once, looking into my fly- 

 book, asked why I had the old frayed flies tied up in 

 separate papers and marked, while the nice new flies 

 did not show this care. Had she been of maturer years 

 I might have quoted Alonzo of Aragon's commendation 

 of old friends, but instead, I merely said : 



" The nice new flies I can easily buy, but no one sells 

 such old flies, therefore I take the greater care of them 

 because of their rarity. " 



