I 



72 FLY-FISHING IN MAINE LAKES. 



way at Whitney's Camp, where we pass the compli- 

 ments of the day with brother Cole, whom we find 

 sole occupant of this delightful retreat. 



Here we are again, just entering the narrows ; 

 and, true to Charlie Cutting's prophecy, we have a 

 head-wind at first, and shortly none at all : the 

 sail flaps idly against the mast, and the boys fill ' 

 their pipes preparatory to a practical lesson on the 

 enlargement of muscle. 



While they row along leisurely, as usual, we 

 amuse ourselves by waking the echoes of the dis- 

 tant hills, or chaffing each other on various events 

 that have transpired during our pleasant sojourn 

 among the hills. Soon the narrows are passed ; 

 and a famous spurt, which would do credit to a 

 college crew, and reminding us of Tom Moore's 

 pretty little song, 



" Row, brothers, row ! the stream runs fast, 

 The rapids are near, and the daylight's past," 



brings us, in quite a lively manner, upon the wa- 

 ters of the lower lake. Now a fine breeze springs 

 up, and once more we hoist our sail to its speed- 

 ing influence. A short hour and a half brings us 

 to the arm of the lake, where ten days ago we 

 bade good-by to Uncle John Merrill, and where we 

 are to-day to meet him and his comfortable buck- 

 board. 



