My First Tussle With The Dry Flies 
T HREE years ago this spring the dainty float¬ 
ers flew into my life. They have kept up 
such a buzzing ever since, especially on 
certain warm days about the first of April, that 
I cannot hear anything else. But when I open 
my tackle box and spread out those worn and 
precious old fly books, the sight of those much 
chewed Cahills and well masticated green drakes, 
■sets my mind in a whirl and pricks a dull and 
stagnant conscience into qualms of reminiscent 
sorrow. Then I snap-to the lid of that other case 
with little glass covered compartments, lean back 
in my chair, and let memory run riot to the tune 
■of Auld Lang Syne. 
’Twas upon the Beaverkill, at Craig-e-Clare, 
that I turned recreant and became enamored of 
those bewitching little strangers that have been 
flying over from England the last few years. 
They were adaptable travelers, however, and soon 
became acclimatized and as they fell amid conge¬ 
nial surroundings quickly put forth a goodly store 
of nativeborn progeny that thrived exceedingly. 
I will confess that most of those I used that 
trip were aliens. Possibly that will account for 
some of their mad frolics when I endeavored to 
make them sail sedately down the tempestuous 
currents of the Beaverkill. Those untractable 
creatures were either pining for the placid waters 
of the Test or realized that a novice held the 
reins and threw to the winds all restraint and 
discipline. 
The first day upon the stream nearly gave me 
nervous prostration. My equipment was quite 
proper, but gracious heaven, those tantalizing dry 
flies would not do anything I wished them to. 
Down gently a tiny dun would drop some thirty 
feet up stream, its wings erect and proud, but in 
an instant the wildest antics clutched that bit of 
feathers and suddenly it would ignominiously 
dive beneath the surface. 
Then I would suddenly reel in and minutely 
examine that female iron blue dun, see that the 
noose was strong about her neck, and as the way¬ 
ward thing belonged to the gentle sex, it gave me 
keen delight to retaliate and twitch her viciously 
through the air. Gradually I learned to forestall 
a few of her capricious whims, and in easy waters 
was charmed to see her inveigle suspicious master 
trout from his hidden lair. By the end of a week 
I had found the key to some of the mysteries, 
and by choosing carefully smooth spots and gentle 
currents gained flashes of a new and ardent pleas¬ 
ure when I struck and hooked some husky, hungry 
fario. Still I had done little but “fish the stream” 
and that acme of delight, “fishing the rise” was 
yet shrouded in unreached glory when the mo¬ 
mentous day came round. 
That afternoon I had been sadly disappointed. 
Chance had given me an opportunity to match 
my Halford flies with the living ones upon the 
By Herbert Janes. 
stream. A rise of those marvellous insects had 
caught my notice and one of the buoyant little 
sailers I had captured on his journey down the 
stream. The wings were the finest yellow, the 
body dull gray, and as he twisted and humped 
his slender form on the palm of my hand, that 
last metamorphose to the perfect insect startled 
my fascinated eyes. The gray body covering re¬ 
laxed, separated at the thorax, and I saw a ring 
of brilliant yellow; I touched the quivering mem¬ 
ber with my finger and the case dropped off, a 
fibrous shell upon my hand. One moment he 
stayed there, now all yellow-body, legs, wings, 
even to the two long hair-like tails, and then away 
he flew, a dazzling, breathing jewel, to alight, 
perchance, within the ravenous maw of another 
jewel, lurking in the eddy of some rock. 
That inimitable wanderer I had endeavored to 
match from my box of floaters, and in all but the 
shade of his wings, which were too brilliant a 
yellow, he was a close relative to the Pale 
Watery Dun. This epicurean morsel I had 
dropped in many promising places, but not a fish 
had deigned to taste the luscious tempter. So can 
you marvel at my despondency as I sat upon a 
rock in mid-stream and pondered upon the myste¬ 
ries of the chase and the baffling waywardness 
of its quarry. It was late, the sun had dropped 
below the hill tops flashing gold and purple won¬ 
ders on the sky, when I slid from my perch and 
started for the house. In a few steps I entered 
a broad, quiet flat above, and as I headed for the 
bank the surface broke some fifty feet in front 
and that magic circle dimpled the water with its 
widening undulations. 
The lassitude that had crept into my weary 
limbs as I sat upon that rock, immersed in the 
softened glow of vagrant thoughts, vanished at 
the sight of that symbolic ring, the witchery was 
again upon me. Slowly, cautiously, I dropped 
below the mystic spot. I waited, and the still at¬ 
mosphere seemed to beat with the potency of bat¬ 
tle as I unreeled some loops of line. Possibly I 
had waited five minutes when the water bubbled 
once again in exactly the same place. My rod 
swung low, the line paid out and the little dun 
fell lightly just beyond the break. Another noise¬ 
less rise, a gentle strike, and then a moment of 
mad splash and tumble awoke the placid sheen 
and he was off. I could not hold him in that first 
surprised rush, and in a great arch he surged to¬ 
ward the farther bank while the reel sang its 
captivating melody. Then he bored and tugged 
upon the line and kept my delicate rod bowed and 
quivering. Still I could not turn him, for with 
nose well down he flashed from one cover to 
another, charging the line with electric shocks 
that set my fingers tingling. But the malign 
power that had fastened to his beautiful, agile 
form, curbed his mighty spirit and wrenched with 
deadly strain his tired jaws until those passionate 
plunges weakened and grew futile. The line came 
slowly in as he vainly fought against the invisible 
demon that he could not conquer until his fright¬ 
ened eyes saw the giant spectre of his undoing, 
when a last frenzied plunge snapped the final 
power and that gallant knight of the stream lay 
panting upon the surface. Gently drifting with 
the current he slipped into the net and the distant 
rumble of the river told an evening requiem for 
another victim of the chase. 
A touch of sadness stirred me as I killed him 
and laid him in the basket—it always does—and 
for a moment I wished him alive and back in the 
stream again. But the joy and elation quickly 
returned, and a vast excitement with them. Par¬ 
donable—when you remember that it was my ini¬ 
tial season with the dry fly, and that for a week 
I had been stumbling amid the intricacies of its 
technique. That moment I realized its exquisite 
delight, its passionate satisfaction, and it struck 
deep into my being that night when, by my own 
hand, I saw exemplified the amazing charm of 
their well beloved creed. As I stood in the cen¬ 
ter of that flat with the glow of conquest in my 
veins, my greedy eyes scanned the serene water 
in quest of further battle. I had not long to wait, 
for another hungry fish soon rose and I pushed 
up stream to within casting distance. This fish 
also took the lure at the first trial, and after a 
vigorous tussle lay calm and still beside his com¬ 
rade, two glorious specimens of the pugnacious 
brown trout. 
From that hour I was caught, deep, inextricably, 
in the meshes of the cult. A wave of intense 
pleasure spread a warm glow within me, I had 
fished the rise, both were mine, and the portals 
of the elect opened wide to receive another 
devotee. 
At that moment a distant plop caught my atten¬ 
tion, and for a third time insatiable desire craved 
another victim. It came from the farther bank, 
but I could not locate the break, so with cautious 
steps I edged in that direction. The light had 
dimmed considerably, but enough lingered upon 
the water to show the fly, so I waited anxiously, 
straining my optic nerves peering into the dense 
shadows under the bank. The shore formed the 
edge of a grass meadow, rising about two feet 
above the stream, and a little below me a dead 
tree had fallen and poked its nose jmder the sur¬ 
face some four feet from the shore. This trunk 
was old and bare, denuded of every branch and 
twig, so that the river flowed calmly beneath it 
and caused but a trifling eddy where its end slant¬ 
ed into the water. 
As I stood watching, it was there, right at the 
end of that tree, not more than twelve inches 
above it, that the rise came. That fish was wise. 
If he knew that I was casting a dry fly he could 
