256 I GO A-FISHING. 



I could not provoke a rise, and it grew dark apace. I 

 threw my line back for a long cast. It was very near be- 

 ing a case of broken rod, for there was a sharp jerk as 

 the flies went through the air, the line came in all in a 

 heap, and something fell into the water close to the boat. 

 I picked up the slack and hauled in a bat. The wretch 

 had taken a small black gnat, and the hook was in his 

 throat. So much for casting a fly in the dark. It was 

 the last cast I made that evening. We went ashore and 

 strolled up the dark road to the hotel. 



The windows blazed their light into the gloom of the 

 Notch, making a strange contrast to the darkness of the 

 forest road from which we emerged. The sound of the 

 music in the drawing-room drove all forest ideas out of 

 one's head. It was nine o'clock, and the dancing had 

 begun. The Profile House is a small world in the midst 

 of the mountain solitudes. Including guests and persons 

 employed about the house, there were nearly eight hun- 

 dred men, women, and children there that night, and 

 every station in life was represented. 



Have I any where in these sketches mentioned my old 

 friend, Major Wilson ? He was sometimes one of our 

 group at the Rookery in years past, but since he had 

 grown to full age he seldom ventured far from his own 

 dinner-table. Why should he, since he esteemed it the 

 main luxury of life ? Do not imagine him a useless man, 

 a mere bon-vivant. He was a hearty old man, a patron 

 of art, and very generous withal. A man is none the 

 worse for loving a good dinner. Gastronomy is as much 

 one of the fine arts as trout-fishing or sculpture. It is 

 very depraved taste which despises good cookery. Table 

 decoration, furniture, and provision form almost the only 

 safe standard by which to estimate national or individual 



