A TELEGRAM. 193 



cafe noir, made in ten minutes on the camp-fire, we 

 pushed off on the rafts and began casting. 



There was a low fog on the lake, and so long as this 

 continued there was little hope for a rise. I have gener- 

 ally found in our northern waters that trout will not rise 

 in fog. Once in a while the rule fails, but not often. As 

 soon, however, as a light breeze came up from the south 

 and lifted the fog, the trout came out for their breakfasts, 

 and we began to have fine sport. But we could find very 

 few large fish. Only two or three rose which weighed 

 over a pound. I struck one much larger fish, but lost 

 him. 



We cast for an hour, took some thirty or forty fair- 

 sized trout, then went ashore for breakfast. While we 

 were discussing a broiled chicken we heard a shout in 

 the woods at the upper end of the lake, and in a few mo- 

 ments saw Dupont emerging from the forest. He had 

 left the hotel at sunrise and come over the mountain, 

 bringing with him a package of letters and telegrams, to 

 which we made the necessary replies, sending them down 

 by a messenger. With all respect to the spirit of the 

 nineteenth century, let an angler be permitted to record 

 his detestation of the telegraph. One can't go now to a 

 mountain lake, in the heart of the primeval forest, with- 

 out being stirred up by sparks of intelligent electricity. 

 There is no longer any such thing as kief in this or any 

 part of the world. Do you know that word kief? Do 

 you know kief? Go to Araby the Blessed and learn it; 

 in the land where they always salute you with the prayer 

 "Peace be with you." Still the telegraph may serve an 

 angler's turn now and then. Some years ago, St. Anton 

 and C - (old anglers of our Profile House company) 

 were dining with me at Geneva, in Switzerland, and after 



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