The River of Feathers 79 



conquest is, 'way down in his heart, tender- 

 hearted. He has the most delicate silken line 

 that can be made ; his rod I am sure is light and 

 long, no worm has lured the strike; indeed I 

 have heard that the barb may have been filed; 

 so the chances are a thousand to one that the 

 trout will escape, and last, there is the adjura- 

 tion of the master already quoted : " All that 

 are lovers of virtue ... be quiet and go an- 

 gling." It is with these sophistries the angler 

 assails his conscience, if he has any, and so he 

 takes the one chance and tries to land his game 

 that has all the odds. 



There was something w r rong with the gods of 

 Lassen that day. Invoked they were by the leap- 

 ing trout, as, just there, no trout could fling him- 

 self into the air without seeing that mystic 

 mountain hanging in the distant north against 

 the blue. But " whom the gods love die young " 

 on the Kiver of Feathers, and with a splendid 

 leap the big trout fell near the bank, and for 

 the first time I felt that I really had him, held 

 him firm, the rod and line humming, vibrating, 

 thrilling, the little reel, a juggernaut of chance, 

 eating the line. For a moment the bamboo bent 

 to the buckling point, the splendid band of color, 

 the dark roseate living rainbow sliding along, 

 protesting, helpless. A quick motion, and into 

 the long-handled net he glided, flinging the spray 

 over us as I lifted him out and had him on the 



