pper, and stop directly under him. Trembling with anxiety and
eager expectation, I endeavored to make the movements of the insect
still more natural, and, as far as I was able, I threw into him a sudden
perception of his danger, and a frenzied desire to get away. But,
either the trout had had all the grasshoppers he wanted, or he was able,
from long experience, to perceive the difference between a natural
exhibition of emotion and a histrionic imitation of it, for he slowly
turned, and, with a few slight movements of his tail, glided back under
the bank. In vain did the grasshopper continue his frantic efforts to
reach the shore; in vain did he occasionally become exhausted, and sink
a short distance below the surface; in vain did he do everything that he
knew, to show that he appreciated what a juicy and delicious morsel he
was, and how he feared that the trout might yet be tempted to seize him;
the fish did not come out again.

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. But he must have detected the iron-barb of vice
beneath the mask of blitheful innocence, for, after a short
deliberation, the trout turned and disappeared under the bank. As he
slowly moved away, he seemed to