So I jumped; landed on the end of the log; felt it settle slowly
down; ran along it like a small boy on a seesaw, and leaped off into
shallow water just as the log rolled from the ledge and lunged out
into the stream.

It went wallowing through the pool and down the rapid like a playful
hippopotamus. I watched it with interest and congratulated myself
that I was no longer embarked upon it. On that craft a voyage down
the Unpronounceable River would have been short but far from merry.
The "all ashore" bell was not rung early enough. I just got off,
with not half a second to spare.

But now all was well, for I was within reach of the fish. A little
scrambling over the rocks brought me to a point where I could easily
cast over him. He was lying in a swift, smooth, narrow channel
between two large stones. It was a snug resting-place, and no doubt
he would remain there for some time. So I took out my fly-book and
prepared to angle for him according to the approved rules of the
art.

Nothing is more foolish in sport than the habit of precipitation.
And yet it is a fault to which I am singularly subject. As a boy,
in Brooklyn, I never came in sight of the Capitoline Skating Pond,
after a long ride in the horse-cars, without breaking into a run
along the board walk, buckling on my skates in a furious hurry, and
flinging myself impetuously upon the ice, as if I feared that it
would melt away before I could reach it. Now this, I confess, is a
grievous defect, which advancing years have not entirely cured; and
I found it necessary to take myself firmly, as it were, by the
mental coat-collar, and resolve not to spoil the chance of catching