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are arrayed in new splendors and peopled with other phantoms.

So I have dreamed, and might go on dreaming, but this time I am brought back to the green slope and a little figure. The Governor is toiling up the trail with a quart bucket, his special chattel, from the spring, whence he volunteered to bring a drink for his mother. I can see no impediment in his path, yet he stumbles and falls. Would I had been there to warn him; but the water is spilled. He does not cry, but gathers himself and his property up, and goes back to begin his task over again. Just then there came to me pat, an aphorism, I think, of "Poor Goldsmith": "True greatness consists not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall;" and I took it as an omen of good for the boy.

The time is approaching when we must break camp and go back to the brick and mortar and the realities of civilization. Duties to be performed will be undertaken with better zest when I get to them, but I cast lingering looks toward my mountain ruins as the day of departure draws nigh. I even have a thought that it would be pleasant to relapse into barbarism, if out of such as mine our civilization has grown-we might build up a better. As this may not be, I am encouraged by the thought that another season will come, and with hope in my heart I am better prepared for the work awaiting mc. I know that I shall go back with a fresher feeling for my kind, and more charity. So when one September morning, after a day of gray mist

hanging over the range, the wind comes down chill from the heights, and the morning sun lights up my castles and pinnacles in diadems of new-fallen snow, I say we must be off. We gather together our lares of nomadic life, and with a regretful farewell to those I cannot bring away, we make the journey home, a better man and woman, with a nut-brown, healthy boy, for much of which I give credit to the artificial fly, and the beautiful denizens of the mountain streams.

"Fishing for lake trout is about as much sport as dredging for oysters, and boat-fishing for brook trout is merely a refinement of sitting on the corner of the dock and bobbing for eels. In wading a stream all the muscles are called into play and the mind is strung so tightly with anticipation of a rise, new views and surprises, care where the feet are planted, and watchfulness that the bushes do not capture the flies, that there is a sense of generalship in steering clear of all dangers and in capturing your game.”— Fred Mather.

"The true angler touches no net, but that with which he lands the heavy struggler hung on his tiny hair."-G. W. Bethune, D.D.

"The Western trout takes the fly well, but not so greedily as the Eastern fish. The reason is, that they are from early spring gorged with food in the myriads of young grasshoppers that fall into the streams before getting their wings. The best months for trout fishing in the Rocky Mountains are August and September, although good sport may be had in July and October."-Lieut.Col. R. I. Dodge, U. S. A.

"If you eat your kind, I will eat you."-Benjamin Franklin.

"What may appear the right color when looking down upon the fly, may be found quite wrong when viewing it between the eye and the light--the way in which fish must, from their position beneath the object, always see it."-Hewett Wheatley.

"Although I am a great advocate for the system of matching your artificial flies with the natural ones upon the water at the time of fishing, still I am of the opinion that an unnecessary number of patterns only confuses the tyro."-Francis M. Walbran.

"Light is light. And by its aid all animated beings see, and in its absence all alike are blind. The laws of nature operate equally and invariably both above and below the surface of the water, and, until it is demonstrated to be otherwise, I cannot think trout see in any different manner, or by any different means, than do There may be a difference in degree, but I cannot believe in kind."—Henry P. Wells.

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FLY FISHING IN THE YOSEMITE.

BY

A. LOUIS MINER, JR.

A MERRY party had come for a holiday to the Yosemite, and their camp was established between the north and south domes near the forks of the Merced. Toward the east the Tenajo Cañon opened, revealing through its vista of granite crags the highest peak of "Clouds' Rest," crowned with eternal snows. Westward, the Sentinel Rock, like a minaret among the domes, pierced the sky.

There were seven in the party, including a heathen from the flowery kingdom, almond-eyed-Ah Yang. His nominal function was to do as he was bid, and serve as man of all work, but in reality he ruled; and ruled with a rod of iron. Yang had been induced to come by motives purely sordid; but the others, aside from seeing the wondrous valley, had various reasons for making the journey.

The Judge came for relaxation. He needed it. For the last dozen years he had devoted himself to reading the morning papers, lunching at his club, and entertaining his friends sumptuously at dinner.

His wife, who, in the levelling atmosphere of camp,

came to be styled the Judgess, imagined herself on the verge of a decline, and sought recuperation in the forest. If the Judgess were described as fat and forty, omitting the fair, the description would fall far short of truth. In spite of her ailments, the Judgess would have enjoyed herself in a way, had it not been for the young woman she was chaperoning. This was Madge. Certain young men in San Francisco called her a rattler, and certainly there was nothing slow about her. The chief end of her existence, at home and everywhere, seemed to be the pursuit of fun; to this end she flirted with anything that came in her way, from stray herdsmen on the plains to an English baronet at a Yosemite hotel. When nothing else was at hand, and to the Judgess' indignation, she flirted with the Judge. With charming zest she played continued games of poker with him till his honor's purse was far thinner than its owner. The Judge's admiration for Madge was profound, but after an hour at cards, he would usually remark, "that girl has the devil in her, as it were, bigger than a wolf."

It is said that all men have a ruling passion. Be that as it may, a passion certainly ruled a worthy clergyman of the company. The men of our generation affected with beetle mania are many, but his Reverence was absolutely devoted to bugs. The Judgess, a zealot to such a degree that Mary of England was but lukewarm in comparison, said that his Reverence valued a butterfly more than a human soul; and Madge insisted that,

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