DAYS IN THE OPEN 



travel far to a famous fishing ground and find the 

 conditions just right? It is always too early or too 

 late, the water is too high or too low, something 

 is the matter which effectually prevents the best 

 sport. But the man who has lugged a bundle of 

 fly-rods to the church convention that he might use 

 them on Lake Chelan is slow to believe that all his 

 enterprise has been in vain. He will give them 

 a try before abandoning hope. Behold him, then, 

 whipping patiently on the edge of sand bars, in 

 the swift water, under over-hanging bushes, in the 

 shadows of great rocks, here, there, everywhere 

 except on the board walk and the roof of the 

 hotel ; but so far as results are concerned he might 

 as well have cast his flies in State Street, Chicago. 

 Nothing doing; not even the feeblest answer to 

 his invitation. Meanwhile a fellow-boarder is 

 fishing with bait, using a bamboo pole about six- 

 teen feet long and derricking fish in with a regu- 

 larity that is equalled only by his evident ignorance 

 of all the fundamental principles of true sport. But 

 he gets the fish. If one is fishing for market he may 

 use a telegraph pole or a net; but if he has in him 

 something of the temper of the famous Izaak, 

 fishing is more than meat. He loves the water and 

 the sky, is made captive by the beauty of stream 

 and mountain, delights to pit his wits against those 

 of the wary citizens of the pool. 



But what is to be done? No one has yet been 

 found who can compel a trout to go after the fly 



