boughs, in the shadow of the big rock, where the water swirls and
rushes: how the brown hackle went skittering over the pool, or dropped
as lightly as thistledown on the edge of the riffle, the sudden rise
to the fly, the rush for deep water, of the strain on the rod when it
throbbed like a thing of life, sending a delicious tingle to the
finger tips, the successful battle, and the game brought to the net at
last.

The delicious odor of the coffee bubbling in the pot, the speckled
beauties, still side by side, sizzling in the pan, all combine to
tempt the appetite of an epicure.

The camp fire has strange and varied companions. Men from all walks of
life are lured by its cheery blaze. Here sits the noted divine in
search of recreation, and, incidentally, material for future sermonic
use; a prominent physician, glad to escape for a season the
complaining ills, real or imaginary, of his many patients; a judge,
whose benign expression, as he straightens the leaders in his flybook,
or carefully wipes the moisture from his split bamboo rod, suggests
nothing of justice dispensed with an iron hand; and Emanuel, our
Mexican guide, who contentedly inhales the smoke from his cigarette as
he lounges in the warmth of the blazing camp fire, dreaming of his
señorita.

Who can withstand the call of the camp fire, when the sap begins to
run in the trees, and the buds swell with growing life? The meadow
larks call from the pasture, and overhead the killdee pipes his
plaintive call. One longs to lie in the sunshine and watch the clouds
go trailing over the valley. The smell of the woods and the smoke of
the camp fire are in the air, and that old restless longing steals