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1 



No Dolly Tarden had ever fallen victim 

 to my alluring manner of presenting the 

 fly. 



It was a hot, dry, lazy afternoon, away 

 up in the Cascade mountains near the base 

 of the Three Sisters, and I had nearly 

 reached camp, with perhaps a half dozen 

 goodly rainbow trout in my basket. I was 

 loathe to leave that cool, refreshing breath 

 of rare, sweet air which seemed to have 

 drifted down from the very glaciers, with 

 the swirling surface of the river. I paused 

 in meditation on a massive loar that pro- 

 jected well into .the deepening current and 

 was nearly submerged by it. A solitary 

 white butterfly, of the countless myriads 

 gently enlivening the air among the tree 

 tops those late summer days, lay dead on 

 the log. When I idly flipped it off with 

 the tip of my rod I wasn't watching it close- 

 419 



