BROOK TROUT 



ing and foaming over the rocks in mid-stream, and 

 " the slow striker " is all afield. A quick eye with the 

 nerves all aglow, an instantaneous turn of the wrist 

 when the slightest swirl in the water is seen, or the 

 faintest pluck at the feathers is felt, are the only assur- 

 ances of a successful outing. 



Much discussion arose, some years ago, as to the 

 trout flopping its tail at a floating bug, in its efforts to 

 disable or drown it and thus render its prey more easy 

 to capture. In rapid or turbulent waters this never 

 occurs ; in a large quiet one it has been my good fort- 

 une to witness it nearly every day for about a fort- 

 night. This delightful experience was awarded me on 

 the Ontonagon River, some fifteen miles from Waters- 

 meet, Mich. The trout, averaging about half a pound 

 each, lived in a pool with but little current, nearly 

 300 feet in length and fifty in breadth, the banks of 

 which were densely grown with large alders, the 

 branches overhanging some six or eight feet on each 

 side of the pool. The trout seemed to be loitering 

 expectant under the shadows of the alders for falling 

 insects, which now and then would drop into the 

 water. There was no rush, no flash in the pool of a 

 velvet-robed, red-dotted arrow, but a sluggish coming 

 to the surface of a sombre fin with a sort of aristocratic 

 leisure, self-satisfied and confident of success, but a 

 seeming indifference as to the result. It would open 

 its relatively ponderous jaws, gulp down the insect, and 

 leisurely turn tail for the bottom. At least one out of 



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