152 FLY-FISHING IN MAINE LAKES. 



I turn to my work. Does the browned son of 

 the forest do likewise? 



No : he has discovered my fly-book by my side ; 

 a satisfied grunt attracts my attention ; I look behind 

 me, and see the work of Sarah McBride's delicate 

 fingers passing under the examination of his critical 

 eye. 



"Those good flies, Mr. Stevens, McBride ?" 



"Yes, Sarah's." 



"Sarah she make good fly; that fly made like 

 one I sent you ; salmon take that fly, sure." 



"Undoubtedly, Tomah, she made these from 

 your sample ; but will you be kind enough to 

 take that dish-cloth and proceed to business?" 



" I suppose, Mr. Stevens, a wood-duck-wing, and 

 yellow body, will kill more " 



" I suppose, if you don't get at those dishes, you 

 lazy Injun, I'll kill you, and serve you out to the 

 fishes. You'd make splendid food for suckers." 



At last, by threats and entreaties, our household 

 duties are performed, and Joe shoulders his paddle, 

 reaches for the landing-net, and is happy. 



The middle gate of the dam is up, and the water 

 is rushing on its down-hill course, feathery white. 



" Do you think you can take us through the gate, 

 Joe, or shall we take the birch below? " 



" Run that ? That's nothing, white man run 

 that easy, if he knew how." 



