1 88 FLY-FISHING IN MAINE LAKES. 



And now, behold the professor with his axe, 

 Hall with the skimmer, Tom and Johnny exploring 

 the little island for the spot and material for a fire, 

 the two Charleys arranging the lines, and selecting 

 the most lifelike of the dead minnows for bait, 

 while the kind old gent wandered calmly about, 

 telling such fish-stories as would cause the most 

 stoical to glow with anticipation. 



The holes are cut, the lines are set, the little 

 flags all ready to rise at the slightest indication of 

 a nibble, and ah ! there goes a flag, the first 

 thing ! Run, Johnny ! go it, Tom ! False alarm, 

 was it ? Must have been the wind. A long wait ; 

 patience : they don't bite till the noise is stilled, so 

 the old gent tells us. 



A longer wait ; a kicking of shins, and rubbing 

 of noses to keep warm ; nary bite. 



Oh, if that live bait would only come ! It don't ; 

 and ancient gent takes a quiet nipper of old Med., 

 and a dollar from the general fund, and retires to 

 his cottage " over yonder." 



Meantime our fire burns brightly, and we gather 

 round it, watching anxiously our little flags; but 

 somehow they don't go up. 



A boy, an educated youth, joins our party, who 

 will persist, in spite of Tom's logic, that the salt 

 water does not flow into the pond. Innocent child, 



