200 TROUT LORE 



year ; so large was it that we were compelled to 

 seek out a tree with a bole of eighteen inches to 

 secure a sheet of bark the requisite size. I never 

 gaze at that cut-out without experiencing a thrill 

 of reminiscent pleasure. What a battle was that ! 

 How the line ripped through the water, how the 

 reel cried out in exquisite agony, how my arm 

 ached ! But why continue ? You know all about 

 it. Hush! Draw nearer so I can whisper: I 

 know there is a larger trout in that same pool, 

 for I saw a square tail and But, h-i-s-h ! 



The lure of big fish is very real. 



Yet, while I know the joy of fine tackle, the 

 attractivity of exceedingly light rods, the lure 

 of big fish, and the enticement of the unexpected, 

 I realize full well that none of these constitutes 

 the heart- joy of angling. As I attempted to 

 show in the preceding chapter, I love angling 

 whether my creel is filled or empty, whether I 

 catch fish or only intangibles. Then, if the real 

 lure of angling is not discoverable in any of the 

 foregoing, there remains something yet, real or 

 unreal, tangible or intangible, that impels us to 

 court the Red Gods. Every true follower of 

 gentle, contemplative Walton will, I know, agree 

 with me. 



To attempt to put into mere words the heart- 



