TROLLING. 485 



down the cold depths of the "spring-holes" where they 

 laj. 



There we sat, stem and stern, Piscator and I, holding our 

 poles erect, like statues, petrified by our own eagerness,, 

 while the angry sun looked down in sweltering wrath upon 

 our simplicity. Not a breeze came with its blessing to turn 

 aside his curse — not a cloud went up to the sky to shelter 

 us with brooding wings. The pitiless lake held up its 

 burnished shield — still as the death of winter — to hurl the 

 sun's keen arrows, yellow with heat, full in our faces. 

 Round and round Lake Pleasant (infernal mockery of name !) 

 went the slow boat, until the silence of its glide became 

 torture to me, for I longed to hear the ring of ripples and 

 the cool splash of oars. How I began to curse the skill 

 of our patient boatman. As we wheeled slowly past the 

 island it looked like heaven, with the dark, cool shadows 

 of its towering pines. How I longed to have said my 

 prayers more regularly, that I might be permitted to lie 

 down beneath them — and caught myself murmuring rapidly 

 over and over, with my childhood's intonation of piety — i. e. 

 through the nose — "And now I lay me down to sleep," &c. 



But I couldn't catch up ! Not a bite yet. That would 

 have been some comfort ! I moaned as I tossed my basting 

 limbs to and fro. 



"Curse all salmon-trout! would that the bull-frogs and 

 mud-cats had ye in the spawn — hope ye may all be toasted 

 alive upon the trident of the god of waters — ^ye illusory 

 imps — ye speckled whelps, hag-born — may it be the fate of 

 each of ye to be frozen stiff and be made into runners to 

 some furred Kamskatkan's dog-drawn sled ! — but pshaw ! — 

 there's no outlet that way ; curse 'em anyhow ! Phew, 

 scizzors !" 



Q-eorge — loquitur — " Gentlemen, think we'd better go into 

 Round Lake — the water's colder and deeper there, we'll 

 have a better chance?" 



