what kind of fish were left in Jordan Pond.
We had a couple of four-ounce rods, one of which I fitted up with a
troll, while she took the oars in a round-bottomed, snub-nosed white
boat, and rowed me slowly around the shore. The water was very clear;
at a depth of twenty feet we could see every stone and stick on the
bottom--and no fish! We tried a little farther out, where the water was
deeper. My guide was a merry rower and the voyage was delightful, but
we caught nothing.

[Illustration: She took the oars and rowed me slowly around the shore.]

Let us set up the other rod, while we are trolling, and try a few casts
with the fly as we move along. I will put the trolling-rod behind me,
leaning over the back-board; if a fish should strike, he would hook
himself and I could pick up the rod and land him. Now we will straighten
out a leader and choose some flies--a silver doctor and a queen of the
water--how would those do? Or perhaps a royal coachman would be--Chrrr-p!
goes the reel. I turn hastily around, just in time to see the
trolling-rod vanish over the stern of the boat. Stop, stop! Back
water--hard as you can! Too late! There goes my best-beloved little
rod, with a reel and fifty yards of line, settling down in the deep
water, almost out of sight, and slowly following the flight of that
invisible fish, who has hooked himself and my property at the same
time.

This is a piece of bad luck. Shall we let the day end with this?
"Never," says the Gypsy. "Adventures ought to be continued till they
end with good luck. We will put a long line on the other rod, and try
that beautiful little phantom minnow, the silver silk one that came
from Scotland. There must be some good fish in the pond, since they are
big enough to run away with your tackle."

Round and round the shore she rows, past the points of broken rocks,
underneath the rugged bluffs, skirting all the shelving bays. Faintly
falls the evening breeze, and behind the western ridge of Jordan
Mountain suddenly the sun drops down. Look, the gulls have all gone
home. Creeping up the rosy side of Pemetic, see old Jordan's silhouette
sketched in shadow by the sun. Hark, was that a coaching horn, sounding
up from Wildwood Road? There's the whistle of the boat coming round the
point at Seal. How it sinks into the silence, fading gradually away.
Twilight settles slowly down, all around the wooded shore, and across
the opal lake--

Chr-r-r-r! sings the reel. The line tig