Some of
the hats still have a few dejected flies fastened to the ribbon,
melancholy hackles, sadly ruffled Royal Coachmen, and here and there the
determined gayety of the Parmachene Belle.
I look at my worn and rubbed high-laced boots, at my riding-clothes,
snagged with many briers and patched from many saddles, at my old brown
velours hat, survival of many storms in many countries. It has been
rained on in Flanders, slept on in France, and has carried many a
refreshing draft to my lips in my "ain countree."
I put my fishing-rod together and give it a tentative flick across the
bed, and--I am lost.
The family professes surprise, but it is acquiescent. And that night, or
the next day, we wire that we will not take the house in Maine, and I
discover that the family has never expected to go to Maine, but has been
buying more trout-flies right along.
As a family, we are always buying trout-flies. We buy a great many. I do
not know what becomes of them. To those whose lives are limited to the
unexciting sport of buying golf-balls, which have endless names but no
variety, I will explain that the trout do not eat the flies, but merely
attempt to.
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