A DAY FROM A DROUM WS EE AVEANGS) Dileekere 
SEPIA: 
He gets up before daylight. I say “geis 
up,’ for he hasn’t been asleep; what lover 
of the rod can sleep before his first day at 
trout in a year? A fisherman is not a 
stoic! 
He gets up, then, and after getting his 
clothes on wrong several times, and trying 
not to wake everyone in the house, gets 
his rod and reel, and with pockets filled 
with multitudinous traps without which no 
worshipper of Pisces can approach the 
shrine of Fontinalis, leaves the house as the 
sky lights in the East, taking the path 
which leads up the hill at the back of the 
house, and is soon out of sight among the 
scrub oaks. There is just light enough for 
him to see the faint trail at his feet, as it 
winds around the boulders and old uproot- 
ed tree stumps. Past piles of rocks sup- 
posed to contain more rattlesnakes than a 
barrel of whiskey; past a last winter’s deer- 
stand, with its charred ashes still showing 
its holder’s protection against the biting 
winds. Not a sound is in the air, except 
the swish of the brush against the old over- 
coat, donned not only for protection 
against the early morning chill, but also 
the drenching to be had from the dew, 
which flies in a spray from every touched 
bough. Twenty minutes’ walking, and 
the path turns downward, winding in and 
out like a serpent, then a stop for a mo- 
ment’s rest from the load of camera, coat 
and traps, when, hark! What is_ that? 
Soon it becomes plainer, growing into a 
rumble, then into a muffled roar. until 
when the trail is lost on a broad rock, end- 
ing abruptly a few feet further on, a step to 
the edge, and what a scene is unfolded! 
Twenty feet below, a boiling cauldron of 
the yellowish green cypress water of the 
swamps above, a turmoil of foam 30 feet 
across, throwing clouds of mist into the 
air, as from a panting engine. Above, to 
the right, the water comes down over the 
falls in a solid sheet, a roaring torrent, 
with a din that shakes the ground, causing 
that deep diapason which suggests the 
thunder of a volcano. Thrown at the foot 
of the falls by a mighty force of long ago 
are brown boulders and tree trunks, piled 
in confusion. 
Along the opposite side of this miniature 
gorge, is a series of thin, broad, filmy 
falls, which deck the hoary moss-covered 
stone behind and below them with a lace 
whose pattern was designed before man be- 
gan to trace his ruder work. 
32 
Tossing, whirling, leaping, foaming the 
water hurries below through tortuous chan- 
nels formed by the boulders thrown this 
way and that, divided by an island of rocks 
and living trees, cutting a curving hollow 
deep under the cliff above, and forming a 
deep, black, spume-covered pool, chatter- 
ing, gurgling, dancing to join again and 
widen into an immense pool 200 by 75 
yards, with a 100-foot riffle at its head. 
The turbulent water now subsides into a 
slow train of foamy circles, till it hardly 
seems to move. No sound—what’s that!— 
down in the center of the pool a whirl, a 
splash, the slap of a broad tail on the water, 
the gleam of a glistening side! The Brook 
Trout has begun his breakfast! 
The fisherman wakes from his dream ot 
Elysian Fields, his eyes lose their far away 
look, and gleam with excitement. He sees 
around him the perfect setting of his first 
day’s sport with the trout! 
Off goes the coat, down goes the camera 
and the rod is fitted. Put on your best 
leader, my boy, a double one if you have it, 
youll need it in this swift water! 
What lure? A small minnow out of the 
bottle half full of water you have in your 
creel; no flies at this time of the morning; 
youll need sun on the water for them. 
Back! out of sight of the water! Every- 
thing is ready, and our fisherman creeps 
to the edge oi the first pool below the falls, 
a small one beside the mass of foaming 
water. He reels out sufficient line, and 
tosses the bait over, with heart in his throat 
like a freshman at his first examination, 
when, as soon as the minnow is fairly in 
the water, splash! a pull, and he reels in a 
line with half a minnow on its end. Salve- 
linus is hungry for his breakfast, so hun- 
gry that he did not aim with his usual care 
—and saved his life! Another bait, an- 
other cast, and zip! off he goes, with the 
reel singing a morning hymn. A _ neck- 
breaking scramble down the rocks, hang- 
ing on to a small tree trunk by one hand, 
with far more care that the line should be 
kept taut than that his neck should not 
be broken, and he stands on a small rock, 
shelving into the pool, and slippery with 
moss. Our trout by this time has worked 
himself into a rage, at the resistance offered 
by a puny minnow, but he does not know 
that the tiny shiner is backed by the silk- 
worm, the give and take of the bamboo, 
and “‘the man behind the rod,” a little nerv- 
ous and trembling, perhaps, but who would 

