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.  I recall 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.  I gave 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