Any one of a great number of things may happen at such a time. The hook may tear out, slack line is fatal, the line may break, the snood or leader may part, the rod may give way, an earthquake may chance along; in short, there is no catastrophe which is not liable to occur when you have a big fish at the other end of a line. The worst of it is that all these possibilities visit the mind of the fisherman at once. There is one other possibility; namely, that you may land the fish. That is just what happened this time; and when he was fairly in the net that fisherman let forth a whoop which must have scared the foxes on Deer Island, three miles away. How much did he weigh? Such inquisitiveness is really painful; but if you must know, the scales said two pounds, fourteen ounces. All fishermen will understand that a fish shrinks rapidly after being taken from the water, and it must have been at least ten minutes after his capture before he was weighed. This accounts for some things. Will some wise man rise up and explain the puzzling vagaries of the trout? Why does he strike freely at a certain fly one day, and entirely ignore it on the day following? Why will he sulk for hours, and then make the water boil with his acrobatic exercises? One morning, when all the signs were propitious, Mr. D. and the writer sought the mouth of South Brook, a place famous in all this region for the number and size of its trout. Mrs. N., a veteran angler and successful, was just leaving in deep disgust. She had been fishing since five o’clock and not a strike had rewarded her patient toil. One hour, two hours, we cast in vain. We might as well have been fishing in the Dead Sea so far as any signs of trout were concerned. Under the overhanging alders, by the side of old logs, up close to the bridge, down where the stream meets the bay, back and forth we went, but all in vain. At last, over by the big rock, a splash is heard and the widening ripples tell that a trout has jumped. Quietly we seek the spot. When some forty feet away the flies are sent on their mission, and then follows an experience that cannot be put into words. For fifteen minutes the water fairly foams, as the eager fish leap for the fantastic creations which are supposed to resemble different forms of insect life. The sport is fast and furious. Ten feet of line is as good as fifty, and a frayed fly is as acceptable as a fresh one. They seem to be fighting for the first chance at anything that is offered. Singles reward every cast, and doubles are not infrequent. Three of the number taken, go over a pound and a half each, and not one falls under half a pound. A quarter of an hour of this delirium, and then it is all over. We whip in vain for another hour, and turn towards the hotel, puzzled but happy.