146 TROUT LORE 



One day a bass fisherman passed through my 

 camp, his hat decorated with rather large bass 

 flies; whether or not they were used for other 

 than ornamental purposes I did not stop to in- 

 quire. When the bass lover departed three of 

 his flies remained behind, a Silver Doctor, Royal 

 Coachman and Scarlet Ibis. Along toward the 

 edge of evening I took my canoe, crossed over 

 to the shady side of the river, where I knew the 

 water was deep and the bottom little better than 

 a stone-pile. Taking all the time in the world, 

 I arranged a shotted cast, Silver Doctor for end 

 fly and Royal Coachman as dropper, and sent the 

 combination close up inshore, where the low- 

 hanging trees leaned out over the quiet water. 

 I waited for nearly a minute, while the flies went 

 down, down. The water was fully fifteen feet 

 deep. Then slowly I reeled in. Before those 

 flies had moved ten feet I was fast in a good 

 trout; and a second fish struck before the first 

 reached the boat. Such a battle! It does my 

 heart good to remember it. Up and down that 

 shore-line I worked by boat, the result being that 

 before the gathering darkness made such angling 

 impossible, an even dozen fish had found their 

 way into my creel. 



Always you will find the larger fish, the sleepy 



