116 TWO DAYS FLY-FISHING 



harbour amongst the decaying roots of the tree. 

 A river which derives its force from mountain tor- 

 rents, which brawls and foams amongst rocks and 

 the obstructions it meets with, always puts me in 

 mind of the violent passions of man. A clear, 

 placid and unruffled stream, on the contrary, is a 

 fit resemblance of those, who, pursuing the even 

 tenor of their way, fall gently into the ocean of 

 life, undisturbed by bad passions and unsullied by 

 mixing with the turbid waters of the world. 



' So calm, the waters scarcely seem'd to stray, 

 ' And yet they glide like happiness away.' 



BYRON. 



As soon as we had adjusted our tackle we pro- 

 ceeded to work, and flogged the waters with un- 

 abated perseverance for two hours without getting 

 a rise. We changed our flies from picked wing to 

 blue duns, and from blue duns to the red-hackled 

 palmer, but nothing would do. Our attendant 

 looked provokingly significant, and now and then 

 marvelled at our want of success. Few things are 

 more annoying than that magpie look of cunning 

 which a man puts on when he thinks that he knows 

 more than yourself. His head is turned a little on 

 one side, and one eye is a little closed. Such was 

 Tom Clubb's sly glance while he watched our un- 

 availing efforts. It was now about noon, and to 

 our great delight the Mayfly began to make its 



