OVER THE SIMPLON PASS 71 



with the hotel " boy," who dug a can of worms fat 

 enough to have come from Holland, and then for 

 the Rhone, which was rushing along the valley 

 about half a mile distant. The first sight of the 

 river somewhat dampened my ardour. It was of 

 a dirty milk colour, and no respectable American 

 trout would live in it for a moment. But then, I 

 reasoned, Swiss trout may not know any better 

 so here goes. I fished in the rapids and in swirling 

 pools, under low bending alders and by the side of 

 huge rocks. I skittered those fat worms on the 

 surface, and dropped them down to the bottom. 

 Every trick of the angler learned by experience or 

 gathered from conversation and reading, was tried 

 in vain. Tell it not in Skegemog and publish it 

 not on Prairie River! but I never had a bite. 

 And yet I was not cast down. The setting sun 

 was turning the mountain tops into glory, the 

 laughterof reapers ina neighbouring field, the tinkle 

 of goats' bells far up the mountain side, the gurgle 

 and singing of the Rhone, the beauty of that match- 

 less valley I had gained all these by my efforts, 

 even though of fish I had none. 



Let no hard-hearted reader giggle over my poor 

 luck, for when I sat down that night to dinner, 

 and the far-famed Brieg trout were placed before 

 me, behold! they were not trout at all, but some 

 sort of a sucker, full of pronged bones and with 

 soft white meat. I never had any ambition to 

 catch suckers. 



