'HEN spring seems btill afar 

 off, when nights are sharp, 

 and patches of snow lie 

 about, in spite of the frost 

 the maple feels the sweet 

 juices in all its fibres. The same nameless 

 influence touches the angler. His blood 

 moves; he has no more choice than the 

 budding tree. He must see his fly-books. 

 Every article of his outfit - - creel, hob- 

 nail, or rod has its charm to rouse 

 memory or quicken imagination ; but in 

 the book is hidden the subtlest spell of 

 all. Move but a fly from its folds, and up 

 swarm the recollections and the dreams 

 -recollections of a past in which all 

 joy is fresh, all disappointment forgotten; 

 dreams of a future filled " much more 



