small exasperations."

--SIR EDWARD GREY: Fly-Fishing.

Every moment of life, I suppose, is more or less of a turning-point.
Opportunities are swarming around us all the time, thicker than gnats
at sundown. We walk through a cloud of chances, and if we were always
conscious of them they would worry us almost to death.

But happily our sense of uncertainty is soothed and cushioned by habit,
so that we can live comfortably with it. Only now and then, by way of
special excitement, it starts up wide awake. We perceive how delicately
our fortune is poised and balanced on the pivot of a single incident. We
get a peep at the oscillating needle, and, because we have happened to
see it tremble, we call our experience a crisis.

The meditative angler is not exempt from these sensational periods.
There are times when all the uncertainty of his chosen pursuit seems
to condense itself into one big chance, and stand out before him like
a salmon on the top wave of a rapid. He sees that his luck hangs by a
single strand, and he cannot tell whether it will hold or break. This is
his thrilling moment, and he never forgets it.

Mine came to me in the autumn of 1894, on the banks of the
Unpronounceable River, in the Province of Quebec. It was the last day,
of the open season for ouananiche, and we had set our hearts on catching
some good fish to take home with us. We walked up from the mouth of
the river, four preposterously long and rough miles, to the famous
fishing-pool, "LA PLACE DE PECHE A BOIVIN." It was a noble day for
walking; the air was clear and crisp, and all the hills around us
were glowing with the crimson foliage of those little bushes which
God created to make burned lands look beautiful. The trail ended in
a precipitous gully, down which we scrambled with high hopes, and
fishing-rods unbroken, only to find that the river was in a condition
which made angling absurd if not impossible.

There must have been a cloud-burst among the mountains, for the water
was coming down in flood. The stream was bank-full, gurgling and eddying
out among the bushes, and rushing over the shoal where the fish used to
lie, in a brown torrent ten feet deep. Our last day with the land-locked
salmon seemed destined to be a failure, and we must wait eight
months before we could have another. There were three of us in the
disappointment, and we shared it according to our temperaments.

Paul virtuously resolved not to give up while there