The trout-fly does not resemble any known species of insect.It is a "conventionalized" creation, as we say of ornamentation.The theory is that, fly-fishing being a high art, the fly must not be a tame imitation of nature, but an artistic suggestion of it.It requires an artist to construct one; and not every bungler can take a bit of red flannel, a peacock's feather, a flash of tinsel thread, a cock's plume, a section of a hen's wing, and fabricate a tiny object that will not look like any fly, but still will suggest the universal conventional fly.
I took my stand in the center of the tipsy boat; and Luke shoved off, and slowly paddled towards some lily-pads, while I began casting, unlimbering my tools, as it were.The fish had all disappeared.
I got out, perhaps, fifty feet of line, with no response, and gradually increased it to one hundred.It is not difficult to learn to cast; but it is difficult to learn not to snap off the flies at every throw.Of this, however, we will not speak.I continued casting for some moments, until I became satisfied that there had been a miscalculation.Either the trout were too green to know what I was at, or they were dissatisfied with my offers.I reeled in, and changed the flies (that is, the fly that was not snapped off).After studying the color of the sky, of the water, and of the foliage, and the moderated light of the afternoon, I put on a series of beguilers, all of a subdued brilliancy, in harmony with the approach of evening.
At the second cast, which was a short one, I saw a splash where the leader fell, and gave an excited jerk.The next instant I perceived the game, and did not need the unfeigned "dam" of Luke to convince me that I had snatched his felt hat from his head and deposited it among the lilies.Discouraged by this, we whirled about, and paddled over to the inlet, where a little ripple was visible in the tinted light.
At the very first cast I saw that the hour had come.Three trout leaped into the air.The danger of this manoeuvre all fishermen understand.It is one of the commonest in the woods: three heavy trout taking hold at once, rushing in different directions, smash the tackle into flinders.I evaded this catch, and threw again.Irecall the moment.A hermit thrush, on the tip of a balsam, uttered his long, liquid, evening note.Happening to look over my shoulder, I saw the peak of Marcy gleam rosy in the sky (I can't help it that Marcy is fifty miles off, and cannot be seen from this region: these incidental touches are always used).The hundred feet of silk swished through the air, and the tail-fly fell as lightly on the water as a three-cent piece (which no slamming will give the weight of a ten) drops upon the contribution plate.Instantly there was a rush, a swirl.I struck, and "Got him, by---!" Never mind what Luke said I got him by."Out on a fly!" continued that irreverent guide;but I told him to back water, and make for the center of the lake.
The trout, as soon as he felt the prick of the hook, was off like a shot, and took out the whole of the line with a rapidity that made it smoke."Give him the butt!" shouted Luke.It is the usual remark in such an emergency.I gave him the butt; and, recognizing the fact and my spirit, the trout at once sank to the bottom, and sulked.It is the most dangerous mood of a trout; for you cannot tell what he will do next.We reeled up a little, and waited five minutes for him to reflect.A tightening of the line enraged him, and he soon developed his tactics.Coming to the surface, he made straight for the boat faster than I could reel in, and evidently with hostile intentions."Look out for him!" cried Luke as he came flying in the air.I evaded him by dropping flat in the bottom of the boat; and, when I picked my traps up, he was spinning across the lake as if he had a new idea: but the line was still fast.He did not run far.Igave him the butt again; a thing he seemed to hate, even as a gift.
In a moment the evil-minded fish, lashing the water in his rage, was coming back again, making straight for the boat as before.Luke, who was used to these encounters, having read of them in the writings of travelers he had accompanied, raised his paddle in self-defense.The trout left the water about ten feet from the boat, and came directly at me with fiery eyes, his speckled sides flashing like a meteor.Idodged as he whisked by with a vicious slap of his bifurcated tail, and nearly upset the boat.The line was of course slack, and the danger was that he would entangle it about me, and carry away a leg.
