HOOK MY FISH. 99 



had fallen across our road lately, and the country people 

 were still busy in clearing away the rubbish. 



(s From my former experience, the first glance at the 

 river assured me we should have good sport. Instantly 

 our fishing-rods were got ready, and taking Jean Grros with 

 us a habitant who had accompanied me on former occa- 

 sions, we descended the steep bank, got into his crazy canoe, 

 and were ferried across to the best part of the stream. 



(f There was a large granite boulder in the river, in the 

 wake of which I had formerly hooked many a fine fish. At 

 the very first throw here I rose a large salmon ; but although 

 he appeared greedy enough, he missed the fly. On these 

 occasions, particularly so in the early season, the best and 

 most experienced anglers will feel a slight palpitation 

 arising from a struggle of opposite emotions, hope of 



success, doubt of failure, and uncertainty and curiosity as 







to the size of the fish. Giving my finny friend time to 

 resume the position at the bottom he had quitted, and to 

 compose himself, I then threw the fly lightly over him, 

 communicating to it that slight motion which imitates 

 life. He instantly darted at the glittering deception, and 

 I found him fast on my line. After a few moments' won- 

 derment, he dashed madly across the river, spinning out 

 the line merrily and making the reel f discourse eloquent 

 music.' This fish did not stop in his career until nearly 

 touching the opposite bank, when he turned, made another 

 run for the middle, and then commenced a course of 



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