Down the Rogue River 105 



his port oar for the beach that was shooting by 

 us like the water in a mill race. As we neared 

 it, I leaped into the river, my little reel buzzing 

 and shrieking, and followed the fish in the shal- 

 lows, while my boatman hauled the boat up and 

 followed me with a net. 



It was an extraordinary way of fishing, but 

 exciting to a degree, as there were so many things 

 to think of, and it took some time to get the 

 proper hang of it. This trout took me many 

 feet down the bank before I stopped it, then it 

 came around on the surface, turning its side to 

 the sun, blazing like newly minted silver against 

 the strangely tinted waters of the Rogue, now 

 umber, copper, or old gold, dashing up-stream, 

 surging along the surface; now quivering into the 

 air, to turn and dash down-stream, taking me 

 up and down, in and out, to save it, and show- 

 ing an extraordinary fertility of resource; all 

 of which was carried on before a small jury of 

 booted anglers who watched with delight the 

 gyrations, the slippings, and other eccentricities 

 of the tenderfoot from California, on his first 

 appearance on the Rogue, who, by the grace of 

 happy luck more than anything else, played his 

 trout to a finish. 



Then came the holding up by my guide, that 

 I might see its beauties and revel in the glories 

 of the conquest, a salmon trout, and a six- or 

 seven-pounder I guessed it; not to compare, of 



