“My, O my! isn’t this a perfectly gorgeous morning.  Just look off there toward Mount Rosa and Baldy.  It’s a perfect splendor of clouds and mist and sun; then look behind you, there, down through the big trees.  It’s just the morning to catch a fine big trout.”

“I never caught a trout in all my life,” softly called Willis, as he trailed along behind.  “I don’t believe I’ve ever even seen one.”

“Many and many are the days I’ve fished in these old hills for a dozen; but a prouder fisherman never cast a fly than myself, when I could come home to camp, spread out my little catch of speckled beauties on the grass, and tell just how I caught each one.”

“Is it more fun than casting for big black bass on a clear, warm, summer night?  Lots of times I’ve seen the big fellows leap out of the water, then in again with a splash, making big rings of ripples on the smooth water.  O, it’s great!  Can your trout fishing beat that?”

“Every man after his own heart,” replied the “Chief,” “but for me, give me the trout.  You rise early on such a morning as this and slip off into the canyon.  Far away on all sides rise the mountain peaks, their snow caps jauntily adjusted and their cloaks of ice drawn close about their shoulders.  Then the balsam-scented air, and the dew-laden bushes along the chattering little stream as it flows over a chaos of broken granite or works itself into a boiling froth, only to jump headlong into a quiet green pool.  Can you beat it?”

“Isn’t that a good pool just ahead of us?” questioned Willis.

“I’m going to try it,” replied Mr. Allen.  “Now, be sure to keep that big boulder just ahead between you and the water, for if they see us first there’s no use wasting our time here, we’ll never get a strike to-day.”

Slowly they crept to the great, bare rock.  Here the line and flies were adjusted, and the fishing began.  Willis watched every motion as for a brief second the fly was allowed to drift down the stream, “to be floated here and there by idle little eddies, to be sucked down, then suddenly spat out by tiny suction holes;” then it fell quietly into the current and floated out to the end of the line, bringing up sharply just at the edge of a bleak old granite boulder in midstream.  Again the flies were cast, and again; then—­both hearts stood still; there was a splash, a little line of bubbles, a tail, a silver streak tinged with red and black, then ripples, and nothing more.

“He’s there, anyway,” softly whispered Willis in great excitement.

The line was drawn in and inspected; the hackle was removed from the leader, and again the coachman spatted the water just above where the trout had disappeared.  It floated down and down until it touched the swirl at the edge of the jagged rock.  There was a short, sharp tug; the fly disappeared into the water; a plunge, a dash of spray, then everything kept time to the singing of the reel.  Both jumped to their feet just in time to see the big trout clear the water, shake his head vigorously, then dive into the deep pool.  It was to be a fight to the finish, and the trout had settled to the cool bottom to lay out his campaign.