TROLLING. 485 
down the cold depths of the “spring-holes” where they 
lay. 
There we sat, stem and stern, Piscator and I, holding our 
poles erect, like statues, petrified by our own eagerness, 
while the angry sun looked down in sweltering wrath upon 
our simplicity. Not a breeze came with its blessing to turn 
aside his curse—not a cloud went up to the sky to shelter 
us with brooding wings. The pitiless lake held up its 
burnished shield—still as the death of winter—to hurl the 
sun’s keen arrows, yellow with heat, full in our faces. 
Round and round Lake Pleasant (infernal mockery of name!) 
went the slow boat, until the silence of its glide became 
torture to me, for I longed to hear the ring of ripples and 
the cool splash of oars. How I began to curse the skill 
of our patient boatman. As we wheeled slowly past the 
island it looked like heaven, with the dark, cool shadows 
of its towering pines. How I longed to have said my 
prayers more regularly, that I might be permitted to lie 
down beneath them—and caught myself murmuring rapidly 
over and over, with my childhood’s intonation of piety—z. e. 
through the nose—“ And now I lay me down to sleep,” &c. 
But I couldn’t catch up! Not a bite yet. That would 
have been some comfort! I moaned as I tossed my basting 
limbs to and fro. 
“Curse all salmon-trout! would that the bull-frogs and 
mud-cats had ye in the spawn—hope ye may all be toasted 
alive upon the trident of the god of waters—ye illuscry 
imps—ye speckled whelps, hag-born—may it be the fate of 
each of ye to be frozen stiff and be made into runners to 
some furred Kamskatkan’s dog-drawn sled !—but pshaw !— 
there’s no outlet that way; curse ’em anyhow! Phew, () 
scizzors !” , 
George—loquitur—* Gentlemen, think we'd better go inte 
Round Lake—the water's colder and deeper there, we'd 
have a better chance ?”’ 
