From Fox's Earth 



weakened. Though I made a few more casts, I 

 soon went away. Next day the charm would be 

 fresh again. 



If the fish are dainty because of the variety of 

 the fly, and slow because of the number, all the 

 more art is needed, alike in the choice and use of 

 the lure. Watch an old angler shabby as only 

 an angler can be who has been baffled all the 

 morning, and only gets the keener with his eye 

 on the rings which the trout are breaking, to see 

 what they are sucking down. From his book of 

 battered parchment he takes a bare hook, and fur 

 or feather for fresh dressing. If the lure attract 

 where others failed, a glow comes over his face. 

 It is better than a basketful where the trout 

 would not be denied. I have visions of such an 

 angler who after barren but delightful hours 

 came near to Ashestiel, where he cast again, and 

 this time not in vain. The play of the trout is 

 passing now ; the faint gurgle where the water 

 swirled, sounds ; the glow on the face shines out. 



In the slight air-chill, flies are not so many. 

 Forms drop and pass. Other forms, touched 

 with richer shades, come in their stead, but do 

 not quite fill their place. The heyday of insect 

 life has gone by. Whereas the water was a 

 maze of spinners half hidden in drowning forms, 

 one spins or drowns here and there. As in 

 spring, insect life awakens not all at once, but a 

 few appear in advance. So in August it goes to 



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