of a mountain morning in summer- 
time? 
In a bed of wintergreen, of green 
leaves and white flowers, I lay prone 
above a length of water that should 
hold a trout or two worth putting in 
the creel. Nibbling a leaf of winter- 
green, I watched the water for signs 
and was rewarded by dim flashes and |] 
dimmer shapes moving under the isles 
of drifting foam. I inhaled a strong 
yet fragrant odor of spearmint. A 
searching examination of my stock of |} 
flies revealed a poor selection—they 
had been roughly used, abused, and 
should have been thrown aside. The 
one and only shadfly might have passed 
for any kind of a bug; the others were 
lampoons on a true insect. Suddenly 
a tiny, many-colored butterfly lighted 
upon a strip of grass, and in time less ; 
than it takes to write I had a hat|] 
over the fairy insect and was holding 
it up for close scrutiny. No trout 
could refuse such a tempting morsel. 
In a prone position, with a half- 
swing of a raised arm, I placed the 
living, fluttering lure just where I 
wanted it to fall—on the dark, shim- 
mering roof of the placid dead water. 
A ribbon of foam laid in a serpentine 
length on the water and moved lan-|f{ 
guorously in the almost imperceptible 
back-wash. 
in a flutter of wings inside the folds 
of a bit of foam. It struggled a mo- 
ment, then worked its way into the 
snowy ribbon, and then something 
brushed the ribbon aside and the lure 
vanished. There came no break of the 
water, no visible disturbance. the lure 
was sucked in and disappeared. I 
waited, half-afraid, all of a tremble. 
Seconds grew into minutes, and a|]} 
minute seems an hour, an age. Finally 
came a strong, vibrant tug at the end 
of the line; I knew the hook had done 
its duty. The line shot out, the reel 
opened into song, and the battle was 
on. The primal rushes were short 
spurts, a dash down stream, then to 
the bottom, to one side and to the 
other, and eventually do it all over 
again. To play a fish laying upon 
one’s stomach, partly hanging over a 
bank, was rather trying and quite 
uncomfortable. So I waited a chance 
to get on my feet. 
As the fish seemed well hooked I 
kept a taut line, giving no ground nor 
The butterfly fell lightly 
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and water I must have looked a 
monster to that trout. No fish ever 

Page 489 
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