hen--about the first of June there comes a day when
I find myself going over the fishing-tackle unearthed by the spring
house-cleaning and sorting out of inextricable confusion the family's
supply of sweaters, old riding-breeches, puttees, rough shoes,
trout-flies, quirts, ponchos, spurs, reels, and old felt hats. 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. So that one of the eternal mysteries is how our flies
disappear. I have seen a junior Rinehart start out with a boat, a rod,
six large cakes of chocolate, and four dollars' worth of flies, and
return a few hours later with one fish, one Professor, one Doctor, and
one Black Moth minus the hook. And the boat had not upset.

June, after the decision, becomes a time of subdued excitement. For
fear we shall forget to pack them, things are set out early. Stringers
hang from chandeliers, quirts from doorknobs. Shoe-polish and disgorgers
and adhesive plaster litter the dressing-tables. Rows of boots line the
walls. And, in the evenings, those of us who are at home pore over maps
and lists.

This last year, our plans were ambitious. They took in two complete
expeditions, each with our own pack-outfit. The first was to take
ourselves, some eight packers, guides, and cooks, and enough horses to
carry our outfit--thirty-one in all--through the western and practically
unknown