52 Fly-rods and Fly-tackle. 



ance of the considerate friend "that the watched pot 

 never boils" those who remember this, and how "free- 

 dom shrieked " when once again the way to the tobac- 

 conist was open such only, outside the brotherhood of 

 anglers, can appreciate the thrill with which my maiden 

 cast was at last delivered. 



Two fine trout rose at once to the flies, leaping clear 

 of the water in their eager rivalry, their red and golden 

 sides flashing like jewels in the morning sun. A quick 

 strike, and the line comes back, but where are the flies 

 and the trout ? 



He who sits down on an imaginary chair ; he who 

 would raise his hat to salute his would-be sweetheart, 

 and is forced instead to follow its gyrations through the 

 mud and filth of a city street ; he who eagerly reaches 

 before him in the darkness for an open door, and finds 

 it with his nose these have experienced the pangs of 

 blasted hope, and can sympathize. Paralysis followed 

 the blow ; and when at length the world rolled on once 

 more in its appointed orbit, I began the old familiar 

 process of endeavoring to convince myself that the re- 

 sult of my own stupidity was an arrow of fate. The 

 fault of the leader it could not be, for it had been tested 

 not an hour previously. The shortening line comes 

 slowly in, watched with anxious eyes. But where is 

 the leader alas! careering round in the depths of the 

 Moose Brook, a bond of union between two most un- 

 happy trout. 



Then, I fear, not all the Commandments were remem- 

 bered. 



The angler who, under such misfortune, can preserve 

 his equanimity, must possess a degree of philosophy in- 

 deed phenomenal. My philosophy is quite dilute, so I 



