freely on the water about the 20th of May, trout leave the pools and take to the riffles. And from this time until the latter part of June the fly-fisherman is in his glory. It may be true that the skillful bait-fisherman will rather beat his creel. He cares not for that. He can take enough; and he had rather take ten trout with the fly, than a score with bait. As for the man who goes a-fishing simply to catch fish, the fly-fisher does not recognize him as an angler at all.

When the sun is hot and the weather grows warm, trout leave the ripples and take to cold springs and spring-holes; the largest fish, of course, monopolizing the deepest and coolest places, while the smaller ones hover around, or content themselves with shallower water. As the weather gets hotter, the fly-fishing falls off badly. A few trout of four to eight ounces in weight may still be raised, but the larger ones are lying on the bottom and are not to be fooled with feathers. They will take a tempting bait when held before their noses—sometimes; at other times, not. As to raising them with a fly—as well attempt to raise a sick Indian with the temperance pledge. And yet, they may be taken in bright daylight by a ruse that I learned long ago, of a youngster less than half my age, a little, freckled, thin-visaged young man, whose health was evidently affected by a daily struggle with a pair of tow-colored side whiskers and a light mustache. There was hardly enough of the whole affair to make a door mat for a bee hive. But he seemed so proud of the plant, that I forebore to rig him. He was better than he looked—as often happens. The landlord said, "He brings in large trout every day, when our best fly-fishermen fail." One night, around an outdoor fire, we got acquainted and I found him a witty, pleasant companion. Before turning in I ventured to ask him how he succeeded in taking large trout, while the experts only caught small ones, or failed altogether.

"Go with me tomorrow morning to a spring-hole three miles up the river and I'll show you," he said.

Of course, we went. He, rowing a light skiff and I paddling a still lighter canoe. The spring-hole was in a narrow bay that set back from the river and at the mouth of a cold, clear brook; it was ten to twelve feet deep and at the lower end a large balsam had fallen in with the top in just the right place for getting away with large fish, or tangling lines and leaders. We moored some twenty feet above the spring-hole and commenced fishing, I with my favorite cast of flies, my friend with the tail of a minnow, He caught a 1 1/2 pound trout almost at the outset, but I got no rise; did not expect it. Then I went above, where the water was shallower and raised a couple of half-pounders, but could get no more, I thought he had better go to the hotel with what he had, but my friend said "wait"; he went ashore and picked up a long pole with a bushy tip; it had evidently been used before. Dropping down to the spring-hole, he thrust the tip to the bottom and slashed it around in a way to scare and scatter every trout within a hundred feet.