IN A FISHING COUNTRY 



the fly offers no attraction. One has been 

 accustomed to think that such trout, abid- 

 ing continually below, were exceptions 

 somehow driven into an abnormal way of 

 life. But perhaps these are only carrying 

 on the true tradition — still alive in the 

 race's bundle of instincts and ready to re- 

 assert itself when the chance offers. I do 

 not delay to test the theory, but it will be 

 found to throw light upon a good many 

 questions. 



The laggard sun of 1917 had not cleared 

 away the snowdrifts by the 23rd of June; 

 catkins still were clinging, tamaracks were 

 prinked in the faintest tracery of green, 

 Labrador tea was yet in hard close bud, 

 only the Indian pear was shaking out its 

 ragged blooms. On a chilly drizzly after- 

 noon we stood on the shore of the Walled 

 I./ake with that slender stock of hope which 

 survives every discouragement. An hour 

 slipped away — two hours — in slow, pains- 

 taking circuits of the lake. If a trout there 

 was with any thought of rising, we sought 

 to offer the fly he had in mind; meanwhile 

 the rain worked inward, and the raw air 

 numbed hands and wrists till our casting 

 became wooden and lifeless. Loth to go 

 while daylight lasted, we landed on the 

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