508 WILD SCENES AND WILD HUNTERS. 
artistically made, not without a glance of triumphing pity at 
poor me, who was preparing to do the same with the humble 
angle-worm. The ‘flies’ fall—I see the glance of half a 
dozen golden sides darting at them—but, by this time, my 
own cast is made, and I am fully occupied with the struggles 
of a fine trout. 
What a thrilling sensation it is!—the bite of the first 
trout !—renewed each season, too, in all the strength of 
novelty, when you, perhaps, for the fiftieth time after the . 
weary interval otherwise employed, feel again the electric 
shock of its pull, communicated through your arm to all 
your frame—the heart bounds as gladly, and the eyes gleam 
in as wild an ecstacy of delight, for the moment, as on your 
boyhood’s first capture. But the ‘black flies’ swarmed by 
this time with such a wounding, maddening buzz into my 
eyes, nostrils and mouth, behind my ears, and up my sleeves, 
that no mortal enthusiasm could stand it any longer. 
“ Here, George, in heaven’s name take my rod! My veil! 
—where is it? I have forgotten it!” 
“No, here it is—I thought of it!” and he drew it from 
his bosom. How I blessed the fellow! It was on and 
adjusted in an instant—and then I had time to draw a 
long breath and look around me. 
“Hey! seven trout. What, did I catch all those in this 
little while?” I exclaimed, in a surprise not very compli- 
mentary to Piscator’s ‘ flies.’ 
““T caught one of ’em!” growled he—while he persever- 
ingly whipped the foam with his flies. I turned towards 
him, and through my green veil his forlorn, despairing face 
looked jaundiced. I was moved to pity. 
“Try the worms, good Piscator—here they are. This is 
not the right time of day for them to take the flies in this 
river, I judge!” 
He was soothed, and eagerly improving the door of escape 
thus opened to him, took off the flies and used worms with 
