SISTER ELLEN'S FISH STORY 173 



"Good fishing?" I asked, eagerly. 



"Fair," responded the squaw-man, "but better 

 up the canon." 



From my earliest childhood I had heard my 

 father tell stories of fishing for trout in mountain 

 brooks. It was the one sport I most longed to 

 try. Like Kipling's Tomlinson, "I had heard, I 

 had read, I had thought," but the opportunity 

 had never come till now. And here, with the 

 goal in sight, were my easy-going uncle and my 

 unnatural parent making a plan to pitch our tent 

 beside that trout brook — to lie down and sleep — 

 without casting in a single line ! To-morrow we 

 were to make an early start, and go up the canon, 

 where Uncle Sam would show us — yes, he would 

 — trout-fishing that was worth crossing half a con- 

 tinent to find! 



I liked not their Fabian policy. What if the 

 Bannock Indians should happen along and scalp 

 us before morning? They were on the war-path 

 not so far away. I determined to take no risks. 



A discarded tobacco-pouch soon swung at my 

 belt, with two big grasshoppers in it. I saw a 

 smile and an impressive wink exchanged by my 

 indulgent relatives, as I shouldered my pole and 

 started for the water. They knew (and I knew) 

 how much I didn't know about fishing. 



The sun was sinking into a bank of yellow mist 

 some distance above the horizon, but to all in- 

 tents it was already sunset. A delicate fragrance 

 floated over to me from, the bank of sweetbrier 

 that stood guard over our camp on the side 



