Then I withdrew my line, and moved back from the stream. I now
determined to try Mr. Trout with a fly, and I took out the paper old
Peter Gruse had given me. I did not know exactly what kind of winged
insects were in order at this time of the year, but I was sure that
yellow butterflies were not particular about just what month it was, so
long as the sun shone warmly. I therefore chose that one of Peter's
flies which was made of the yellowest feathers, and, removing the snood
and hook from my line, I hastily attached this fly, which was provided
with a hook quite suitable for my desired prize. Crouching on the
grass, I again approached the brook. Gaily flitting above the glassy
surface of the water, in all the fancied security of tender youth and
innocence, came my yellow fly. Backward and forward over the water he
gracefully flew, sometimes rising a little into the air, as if to view
the varied scenery of the woods and mountains, and then settling for a
moment close to the surface, to better inspect his glittering image as
it came up from below, and showing in his every movement his intense
enjoyment of summer-time and life.
Out from his dark retreat now came the trout, and settling quietly at
the bottom of the brook, he appeared to regard the venturesome insect
with a certain interest.
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