ALONG A TROUT-STREAM 



tree-tops, while the stream sings to the sleeping forest, 



with 



" the still sound 



Of falling waters — lulling as the song 

 Of Indian bees at sunset^ when they throng 

 Around the fragrant Nilica^ and deep 

 In its blue blossoms, hum themselves to sleeps 



" In the night the great old troutes bite very 

 boldly," said Isaak Walton : so the angler is wading 

 the stream at what the roused camp-cook has called an 

 " unearthly " hour. Far better, he is here to drink in 

 the beauty of the sylvan environment as the mystic 

 hour runs from gold of stars to gold of sunshine. 



The stream is wide enough for casting flies v/ithout 

 trouble from the white thorn-bushes. Fifty teet below 

 him is a deep pool, just beyond the wraith of foam at 

 the foot of short rapids. Gloom and mystery lie over 

 and in it ; he can see the white of foam slowly eddy- 

 ing over its black water under two leaning pines. He 

 moves slowly, then pauses with rubber-clad feet on the 

 white and golden gravel, covered with two feet of 

 rushing water. 



Poising the pliable lancewood rod, while the left 

 hand pulls the line from the reel in unison at each pass 

 of the rod back and forth above him, he extends the 

 line with its leader and flies until forty feet of line are 

 in motion. Then, true as bow from arrow, light as 

 down, fluttering as if alive, the White Miller lures 

 169 



