30 FLY-FISHING IN MAINE LAKES. 



Before we were through the narrows, two more, 

 just about the size of the first, left their watery 

 abodes for that bourn from which no trout returns. 

 And now, our supper secured, we reel up, and feast 

 our eyes on the first trophies of our anticipated 

 sport ; not taken, however, as the educated sports- 

 man is wont to entice this brightest jewel in Un- 

 dine's crown. No, the true sport is to come, when, 

 as sunset glories tinge the waters with a golden 

 hue, our dancing flies skip to the gentle music of a 

 southern breeze, over the rippled surface of that 

 nameless cove, tempting with their varied colors 

 this queen of the lake and mountain streams. But 

 we grow poetical : " Charlie, pass the tar." 



One who sits beside me as I write these lines 

 suggests that I reserve a few adjectives with which 

 to describe the beauty of the scene that greeted us 

 as we passed out from the narrows into the upper 

 lake. But it's of no use : I never could do it full 

 justice. We that have been there know, yes, can 

 see it all now as it burst upon our astonished vision 

 that June afternoon, again as it appeared in the soft 

 moonlight when one evening we viewed it from 

 our boat, lazily drifting with the current, ay, and 

 many times since. 



Where are those mountains, shorn of their trees 

 from base to summit, of which the " pastor " tells 



