204 DAYS IN THE OPEN 



oughly chastened spirit the horse was untied and 

 the homeward journey resumed. That night as 

 we told the champion fisherman of the village of 

 the experience at the old mill, he poured a little 

 balm upon our sore spirit by exclaiming, " That's 

 no trout, that's a whale. There isn't a fisherman 

 within twenty-five miles of the old mill who has 

 not hooked that fish and lost him." Strange, isn't 

 it, how other men's ill fortune takes some measure 

 of the sting from our own? 



But this is no tale of woe. On another day, 

 and on the same stream that flows by the old mill, 

 the elect-lady and her unworthy consort spent hours 

 that are a joy to recall. It was only eleven miles 

 to the point recommended by our friendly adviser, 

 and the horse was reasonably ambitious. We had 

 laid in a supply of provisions and took along a skil- 

 let. A perfect day and perfect comradeship, plenty 

 to eat and the novelty of unexplored territory, 

 made it certain that, fish or no fish, the hours would 

 pass pleasantly. As so frequently happens when we 

 are not very particular whether the fish bite or not, 

 they elected to be friendly. The stream where we 

 visited it ran through meadow and pasture-land, 

 with a luxuriant growth of alders along its banks. 

 The open spaces afforded opportunities for my 

 lady to try her hand at trout fishing, and the other 

 member of the party could wade the stream and 

 test the more inaccessible places. The water was 

 almost ice-cold, the stream having its rise less than 



