220 I GO A-FISHING. 



by a series of long leaps from rock to rock, on one of 

 which my wet boots slipped, and I sat down, slid forward, 

 and lost my momentum only on the edge of the stone. 

 Six inches farther would have ended my fishing experi- 

 ence, for the strongest swimmer would have had his 

 brains dashed out in that wild fall of water. Again and 

 again we climbed the rocks two hundred feet, to descend 

 again within two rods of where we had left the stream. 

 Perhaps this sounds like folly. The folly, if there were 

 any, was in starting at all down the gorge. Once started, 

 there is no turning back, for after the first few rods down 

 that ravine the easiest way out is to go through. 



We slipped side by side down a smooth rock, unable to 

 stay the swift descent by any grasp of the fingers or 

 pressure of the palms, and brought up, a mass of rods, 

 baskets, and fishermen, in a heap of moss. 



" When will you remember to leave that ring at home, 

 instead of wearing it in such work as this ?" said Dupont. 



I acknowledged the error, as I had several times be- 

 fore, and transferred the ring from finger to pocket. " Ars 

 est longa, vita brevis," said I, as I gathered myself and 

 my traps together, and sat down to take breath in the 

 comparative silence of the nook into which we had fallen. 



" Apropos of what is that very trite remark ?" 



" The ring. If, as some have supposed, the soul of the 

 artist lingers around his beautiful work, what an odd scene 

 Solon must think this. When he engraved that ring, I 

 fancy he did not expect to follow it to this wild gorge. 

 If he follows any of his work he follows this, for more 

 perfect never left his hands. Cupid is living, breathing, 

 struggling, as he reaches out his hands to catch and clasp 

 the fluttering Psyche. What a perfect statue is the little 

 fellow now that this sunshine lights the sard." 



