REMINISCENT TALES 



line up and down, down and up earnest, 

 serious, and intense. 



"What luck, Ned?" asked the Angler. 



"Nothing yet," he replied. 



"What are you fishing with?" 



"Flies," he answered. 



It was the actual truth. A sinker had been 

 fastened to the leader and the entire bunch 

 of brown hackles secured to the middle loop. 

 Bobbing them up and down patiently await- 

 ing the appearance of a hungry trout. 



To entice still more this dreamland beauty, 

 his shadow cast itself upon the water, and 

 being a large man this shadow was of broad- 

 ened dimensions. 



Still the mighty fish absolutely scorned the 

 six brown hackles and the cooling shade. 

 Very strange indeed, very strange. 



The Angler did not laugh. HE DID 

 HAVE A PAIN, just where is immaterial. 

 He was far from home and the way back was 

 unknown, so he did not even dare to smile. 



"Too bad, too bad, but never mind, here 

 are enough for lunch," he simply said. 



"Let's see 'em," interrupted Ned. 



The creel was opened, the little fish were 

 in rigor mortis but still beautiful in coloring. 



"What are they?" Ned inquired. The 

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