BROOK. TROUT 



'T^he Month of May. 



May is the fly-casters' month; the stream then is 

 generally at a good height for wading; the flies are 

 on the water and the trout are on the rise ; the birds 

 are flying north and all the air is filled with the melody 

 of their song; the mountain-sides are painted in their 

 exquisite tints, not the gorgeous reds and yellows of 

 autumn, but the pale tints of early spring : the mauves, 

 the steel-grays, the lemon-yellows and pink and soft 

 purple and blue — all those light impressions — with 

 only here and there a bit of red maple or green hem- 

 lock to heighten the color. Then to start in at some 

 part of the stream that you have decided upon the pre- 

 vious evening ; to feel the rush of water about you and 

 the constantly moving pictures of nature ; to breathe 

 in deep the pure, cool mountain-air ; the excitem.ent of 

 casting your flies and the constant expectation of a 

 lusty trout — here is a life worth living. How the 

 hours fly by I You look at your watch ; it is two 

 o'clock ; you say to yourself, " What have you done ? " 

 " Where have you been *? It seems but a moment ago 

 that you started in ; how the time does fly I " What a 

 joy it is to be entirely alone with nature — to feel that 

 you are a part of all that is going on; that the birds 

 are singing for you, the flowers are blooming for you ; 

 the lovely violets on the edge of the water, the great 

 splashes of white blossoms on the "shin-hopple," the 

 rich red of the wake-robin and the white and red flowers 



