I take my rod this fair June morning, and go forth to be alone with nature. No business cares, no roar of the city, no recitals of others' troubles and woes which make the lawyer a human hygrometer, no doubts nor fears to disturb me as, drinking in the clear, sweet air with blissful anticipation, I saunter through the wood-path toward the mountain lake. As I brush the dew from the bushes around me, I spy in a glade golden flowers glowing on a carpet of pure green, mingled with the snowy stars of white blossoms; with their fragrance comes the liquid, bell-like voice of the swamp-robin, hidden from curious eyes. Soon seated in my boat, I paddle to the shade of a tall, dark hemlock and rest there, lulled by the intense quiet. Ever and anon as I dreamily cast my ethereal fly, a thrill of pleasure electrifies me, as it is seized by a vigorous trout.

I have long classed trout with flowers and birds, and bright sunsets, and charming scenery, and beautiful women, as given for the rational enjoyment and delight of thoughtful men of aesthetic tastes. And if

"By deeds our lives shall measured be,

And not by length of days,"

then a perfect life has been lived by many a noble trout whose years have been few, but who, caught by the fisher's lure (to which he was predestined, as aforesaid), has leaped into the air and shaken the sparkling drops from his purple, golden, crimson, graceful form and struggled to be free, to the intense delight of the artist who brought him to the basket, where he belonged.

Thus resting, and floating apparently between the translucent crystal and the blue ether, silent, I have felt the presence of a spirit who inspires one with pure thoughts of matters far above the affairs of daily life and toil, of the universe and what lies beyond the blue sky, and of the mind and soul of man, and his future after death. *

Later satisfied, but not satiated, with fair provision of corn, and wine, and oil, and my creel well filled, the shadows lengthen and the day begins to die.

Some day I shall hear no more forever the birds sing in the sylvan shade. My eyes will no more behold the woods I love so well. For the last time my feet will slowly tread this woodland road, and I shall watch for the last time the changing shadows made by the clouds upon the hillsides.

There will come a time when the setting sun will paint the west as the bridegroom colors the cheek of the bride; but I shall not know it, and I shall never again share such hours of peace with the leafy trees. Then, with folded hands upon my quiet breast, my friends will briefly gaze upon my face and I shall be gone. In that last day, so full of deepest interest to me, may my soul be pure.

Filled with such thoughts, I regret that I cannot express them like the poet, whose name I know not, but whose words I will recall:

"Good-bye, sweet day, good-bye!

I have so loved thee, but I cannot hold thee;

Departing like a dream the shadows fold thee.

Slowly thy perfect beauty fades away;

Good-bye, sweet day.

"Good-bye, sweet day, good-bye!

Dear were the golden hours of tranquil splendor.

Sadly thou yieldest to the evening tender,

Who wert so fair from thy first morning ray.

Good-bye, sweet day.

"Good-bye, sweet day, good-bye!

Thy glow and charm, thy smiles and tones and glances

Vanish at last and solemn night advances.

Ah! couldst thou yet a little longer stay.

Good-bye, sweet day.

"Good-bye, sweet day, good-bye!

All thy rich gifts my grateful heart remembers,

The while I watched thy sunset's smouldering embers

Die in the west beneath the twilight gray.

Good-bye, sweet day."

As the balsam-breathing night wind begins to blow, I turn my back upon the silver glancing of the moonlight on the rippling waves of the fairy lake, and step bravely into the darkness of the woods, where I cannot see the places where my foot shall fall, but I know that others have safely passed it before, and that I shall find comfort and home at the end.

Note.—"Description of a day on Balsam Lake (headwaters of the Beaverkill) where no house was ever built. From the lake it is two miles through the woods (about ten miles in the dark) to the nearest house,"—Extract from letter accompanying article.

"I handle this 'brown hackle' as gently as a relic, not alone because it is the memento of an unusual achievement, but because the sight of it brings up vividly before me the beautiful lake where the trout lay; its crystal waters; the glinting of its ruffled surface as the bright sun fell upon it; the densely wooded hills which encircled it; the soughing of the tall pines as the summer's breeze swept through their branches; and the thrill which coursed through every nerve as trout after trout leaped to the cast, and, after such manipulation and 'play' as only those who have had personal experience can comprehend, were duly captured."—George Dawson.

"Don't be in too great a hurry to change your flies."—Francis Francis.

Original

1. Brown Hackle.

2. Scarlet Hackle.

3. White Hackle.

4. Yellow Hackle.

5. Ginger Hackle.

6. Gray Hackle.

7. Black Hackle.

8. Coch-y-Bouddr.

9. Gray Hackle.

1. Emerald Gnat.

2. Black C.

3. Soldier Gnat.

1. Brown Pennell. Pennell Hackles.

2. Yellow Pennell.

3. Green Pennell.

"And now we have got through the poetry of the art. Hitherto things have gone happy as a marriage bell. I unhesitatingly declare, and I confidently appeal to my brother Angler, whether he, a fly fisherman, does not feel similarly. To me fly-fishing is a labor of love; the other is labor—alone. But notwithstanding such are my feelings, it by no means follows that every one else so fancies it. Every one to his taste."—Capt. Peel ("Dinks")

When Spring comes round, look to your tackle with careful inspection, and see that all are in perfect order. Above all, look well to your flies; reject all specimens that have been injured by use, and all frayed gut lengths. It is better to throw away a handful now, than to lose flies and heavy fish together the first time you fasten to a rise."—Charles Hallock.

"That hook is for a very little fly, and you must make your wings accordingly; for as the case stands it must be a little fly, and a very little one too, that must do your business."—Charles Cotton.

"For some reason which I have not succeeded in fathoming, the yellow fly always seems to kill best in the position of dropper, or bob-fly, and the green when employed as the stretcher, or tail-fly. The brown can be used in either position."—H. Gholmon-deley-Pennell.

"Note that usually, the smallest flies are best; and note also, that the light flie does usually make most sport in a dark day; and the darkest and least flie in a bright or clear day."—Izaak Walton.

"No description with pen or tongue can teach you how to cast a fly. Accompany an expert and watch him."—T. S. Up de Graff, M. D.

"There is no more graceful and healthful accomplishment for a lady than fly-fishing, and there is no reason why a lady should not in every respect rival a gentleman in the gentle art."—W. C. Prime.

"Everything which makes deception more alluring should be resorted to by an Angler; for, let his experience be ever so great, he will always find opportunities to regret his deficiencies."—Parker Gilmore.