1 70. FLY-FISHING IN MAINE LAKES. 



" Well, I do ; and my advice is, go home. 1 tell 

 you, I'm anxious about your wife." 



" But we must not go home without a few more 

 fish, Tomah." 



" Very well, just as you say ; but you'll wish you 

 had taken my advice." 



In half an hour the storm burst upon us, with all 

 its fury. The tall trees upon either bank bent 

 before the blast ; the red lightning leaped along the 

 sky, and peal upon peal of thunder rent the dark- 

 ened air. The rain fell in torrents, and our rubber 

 clothing afforded us but poor protection. Pushing 

 our birch to the shore, we lay under the branches 

 of an overhanging tree, which protected us some- 

 what from the raging elements ; Joe all the while 

 insisting that there would be trouble in camp. I 

 confess, I somewhat shared his fears, but would not 

 admit it to him. At last, during a lull in the storm, 

 Joe says, 



" Mr. Stevens, we are going home." 



We were then about two miles from camp, and 

 most of the way we were obliged to go on foot. 

 We started at once, Joe with the birch on his head, 

 and I following on behind, pretty well loaded down 

 with my fishing-implements. Before we had gone 

 half a mile, the rain had ceased, and the sun was 

 bursting through the clouds; still the wind blew 



