citizens of the pool. But what is to be done? No one has yet been found who can compel a trout to go after the fly when he does not wish to. We troll with a Dowagiac spinner, and the result, in number of fish, is distinctly satisfactory. As the trolling is done with a steel rod there is a certain amount of sport in the exercise; but at the best it is far below fly-fishing. This story, thus far, has been written with careful attention to facts in order that it may bear the scrutiny of certain friends who companied with the writer for a short time at the head of the lake. They were good men and true, lovers of God’s out-of-doors, delightful comrades. Their company was a joy, but their presence was embarrassing. Every one knows that witnesses are unnecessary in fishing. To have some one at your elbow who wants to know just how many you have caught and what they weigh, allows no room for that play of the imagination which gives to fish stories their indefinable charm. It was a dark hour for the writer when these good friends turned their faces towards the south and left him desolate, but it was then that the fishing really began. Just where the Stehekin makes its final plunges before joining the lake, there is a reach of rippling water bordered on one side by low-growing trees, and on the other by a great bunch of drift-wood. The fly-rod was put in commission, a sinker was used, and a bit of the white throat of a trout took the place of the artificial lure. With the boat lying against the drift-wood a cast was made towards the trees, the bait allowed to sink and then drawn slowly towards the boat. Was that the bottom? Hardly, for it is tugging and lunging and rushing back and forth across the narrow water. The light bamboo meets every lunge, and the fight goes merrily on for ten minutes or so, when a beautiful Dolly Varden trout is brought to net. Another cast and another strike. This time the visitor has succeeded in getting on the other side of a log that juts out into the stream from the drift-wood. So much the better for the sport. Gently, little by little, he is persuaded to travel towards the end of that log, until, after many efforts, the line swings free. A long, delightful tussle, and he joins his comrade in the bottom of the boat. Lest the reader’s patience should give way under the strain of detailed description, suffice it to say that from that one spot six Dolly Vardens were taken, not one of which weighed less than three pounds. [Illustration: 0161]