FLY-FISHING. 179 



But the sun is on the edge of the horizon, the fall is 

 bathed in flame, the mill-wheel is hung with rubies, the be- 

 lated crows caw loudly, and the " professor " and the 

 " polka " are dancing on saffron and crimson foam to the 

 strident strains of the cicada's fiddle. What, another rise ? 

 Another Bass, perhaps ! No, it must have been a swallow 

 dipping its wing. 



The gentle swish of the supple rod is music sweet as the 

 " professor " and the " polka " follow each other, now in 

 aerial flight, now along the shining water. Egad ! there' s 

 no mistaking that tug ! The reel and the cicada now have 

 it ! The line hisses through the water ! Look out for the 

 sharp rock ! See that blundering bat ! Ah, what a leap ! 

 how he dashed the golden, crimson rain ! Again the 

 duet the shrill cicada and the buzzing reel ! He breaks 

 again, again falls back ! The rod is bending, surging 

 through the air and now the frogs pipe up the sun is 

 down and, bless me ! here 's another Bass ! 



I step ashore, and string them on a willow wand. The 

 mill-wheel has stopped; the water tumbles over the fall 

 with a lonesome sound. The whippoorwill is calling from 

 the cliff. The squirrel is in his nest. The mocking-bird 

 has found his mate. The cows are lowing at the farmer's 

 gate. My patient nag is neighing for her master. "All 

 right, Jenny ! " 



I do not feel so guilty in the gloaming ; and as 'the first 

 silent star appears, I stop at the little tumble down gate 

 before the cabin of u Old Dave," who " cot de rheurnatiz in 

 de fresh' las' spring." 



"Hello ! Aunt Judy. How 's Uncle Dave ? " 



" Howdy, Doctah ! Lor' bress you, honey, de ole man 's 

 initey po'ley jist kin hobble roun', an' dat's all. He 



