IDEAS ON FLY-FISHING. 235 



that the sun began to dip behind the giant pines, I 

 had made up my mind to the course I would pursue, 

 which was to take my pet rod, mount a cast of two 

 flies, and carefully whip the hole from end to end. 

 As if it were but yesterday, I remember distinctly 

 the flies. The trail one was ginger-colored cock's 

 hackle, with light corn crake wing, tipped with silver ; 

 the dropper a large-sized moth. 



"For work at that hour," I hear some internally 

 mutter, " the moth did the business." No, it did not ; 

 cock's hackles of all shades may invariably be backed 

 against the field, and the cock's hackle on this occa- 

 sion kept up its reputation. Down on my knees in 

 the bow of the canoe, the camp-keeper holding her 

 back by a pole in the stern, slowly and cautiously I 

 fished the throat, from thence down into the less an- 

 gry but wider-spread current, when just as my flies 

 passed over an eddy that divided the downward flow 

 from the back water, there was a splash rapidly re- 

 sponded to by a nervous quick movement of the 

 wrist, which planted the hook firmly home. I doubt 

 if I exaggerate, in fact I think I scarcely state 

 enough, when I say that thirty minutes elapsed be- 

 fore my trophy could sufficiently endure the sight 

 of a landing-net to have it placed under him. Thus 



