THE AMERICAN TROUT 35 



splendid ones. Who has not said or thought siuch words 

 as he stood in the bright summer's day under the grate- 

 ful shade of the piazza running round the old country 

 house where he played, a hoy ? 



He does not make the nerres thrill and tingle like the 

 salmon, he does not leap so madly into the air nor make 

 such fierce, resolute rushes, he has not the silver sides 

 nor the great strength ; but he is beautiful as the sunset 

 sky, brave as bravery itself, and is our own home dar- 

 ling. How he flashes upon the sight as he grasps the 

 spurious insect, and turns down M'ith a quick little slap 

 of the tail ! How he darts hither and thither when he 

 finds he is hooked ! How persistently he struggles, till 

 enveloped in the net ! And then with what heart-rend- 

 ing sighs he breathes away his life ! 



There is no fish like him. Lay your prize on a bed 

 of moss, which is his natural resting-place; look at 

 the exquisite hues like shotten silk, the dark spots, the 

 carmine specks, the single first white ray in his fins, and 

 the rich red of the second extending to the lower edge of 

 the abdomen ; the greenish-mottled back, the silver below 

 — what a picture for the painter, if his brush could catch 

 the evanescent tints. How proudly and fondly we gaze 

 on our beautiful prize, not with the mere rude, brutal 

 pride in securing so much booty, such a sum in money 

 value, or a delightful dish for the table, but with an affecta- 

 tion that is hard to explain to those who are not anglers. 

 The sportsman is more fond of the game he pursues and 

 more anxious to preserve it from destruction than the 

 most pretentious humanitarian of animal worshippers. 

 The angler is proverbially the most gentle of men, he is 

 fond of nature, peaceable, contemplative, patient; he 



