Flt-Fishing. 383 



Then I am kept busy leading my line away from jagged 

 rocks in front, and can only do so by holding my rod at 

 arm's length above my head. But now I have led the cap- 

 tive into the deep pool below me, and near the cliff. Then 

 I have leisure to look up at my squirrel, who, with a hick- 

 ory nut in his paws, is raining down the pieces of its hull 

 in a green shower at the river's side, and — there leaps the 

 bass again ! — and again ! Then again the singing of the 

 reel as he dives to the depths of the pool. 



Ah ! listen to the allegro of the mocking-bird atop of 

 yonder beech, as he begins his sunset sonata — the click of 

 my reel a castinet accompaniment — and now, while slowly 

 reeling in the line, the andante of the glorious songster is 

 poured out on the quivering air — and then the trio — the 

 bird and bass and I — and last of all the finale, as I drop 

 the butt of the rod and the reel into my coat pocket, and 

 hug my vertical rod, while lifting out the spent warrior in 

 green and silver sheen, and quickly dispatching him, toss 

 him among the ferns at the foot of the hickory, to the great 

 displeasure of my squirrel, who scolds and scampers away 

 with the nut in his cheek. ^ 



Then, filling my pipe, the blue smoke ascends in curling 

 wreaths and is borne away up the face of the cliff on the 

 soft evening air, while the tinkle of a cow-bell and the hoot 

 of an owl comes from the direction of the old bridge. 



But the sun is on the edge of the horizon, the fall is 

 bathed in flame, the mill-wheel is hung with rubies, the be- 

 lated crows caw loudly, and the " professor " and the 

 " polka " are dancing on saffron and crimson foam to the 

 strident strains of the cicada's fiddle. What, another rise? 

 Another bass, perhaps ! No, it must have been a swallow 

 dipping its wing. 



The gentle swish of the supple rod is music sweet as the 

 " professor " and the " polka " follow each other, now in 



