worry or amusement, according to the
humor of the fisherman himself.

For days at a time they would lie in the deep shade of the lily pads in
stupid or sullen indifference. Then nothing tempted them. Flies, worms,
crickets, redfins, bumblebees,--all at the end of dainty hair leaders,
were drawn with crinkling wavelets over their heads, or dropped gently
beside them; but they only swirled sullenly aside, grouty as King Ahab
when he turned his face to the wall and would eat no bread.

At such times scores of little fish swarmed out of the pads and ran riot
in the pool. Chub, shiners, "punkin-seeds," perch, boiled up at your
flies, or chased each other in savage warfare through the forbidden
water, which seemed to intoxicate them by its cool freshness. You had
only to swing your canoe up near the shadowy edge of the pool and draw
your cast once across the open water to know whether or not you would
eat trout for breakfast. If the small fish chased your flies, then you
might as well go home or study nature; you would certainly get no trout.
But you could never tell when the change would come. With the smallest
occasion sometimes--a coolness in the air, the run of a cat's-paw
breeze, a cloud shadow drifting over--a transformation would sweep over
the speckled Ahabs lying deep under the lily pads. Some blind, unknown
warning would run through the pool before ever a trout had changed his
position. Looking over the side of your canoe you would see the little
fish darting helter-skelter away among the pads, seeking safety in
shallow water, leaving the pool to its tyrant masters. Now is the time
to begin casting; your trout are ready to rise.

A playful mood would often follow the testy humor. The plunge of a
three-pound fish, the slap-dash of a dozen smaller ones would startle
you into nervous casting. But again you might as well spare your
efforts, which only served to acquaint the trout with the best frauds
in your fly book. They would rush at Hackle or Coachman or Silver
Doctor, swirl under it, jump over it, but never take it in. They played
with floating leaves; their wonderful eyes caught the shadow of a
passing mosquito across the silver mirror of their roof, and their broad
tails flung them up to intercept it; but they wanted nothing more than
play or exercise, and they would not touch your flies.

Once in a way there would come a day when your study and patience found
their rich reward. The slish of a line, the flutte