the same unpretentious tackle which he began with as a boy.



But ah, to fish with a worm, and then not catch your fish! To fail with
a fly is no disgrace: your art may have been impeccable, your patience
faultless to the end. But the philosophy of worm-fishing is that of
Results, of having something tangible in your basket when the day's
work is done. It is a plea for Compromise, for cutting the coat
according to the cloth, for taking the world as it actually is. The
fly-fisherman is a natural Foe of Compromise. He throws to the trout a
certain kind of lure; an they will take it, so; if not, adieu. He knows
no middle path.

"This high man, aiming at a million,
Misses an unit."

The raptures and the tragedies of consistency are his. He is a scorner
of the ground. All honor to him! When he comes back at nightfall and
says happily, "I have never cast a line more perfectly than I have
to-day," it is almost indecent to peek into his creel. It is like
rating Colonel Newcome by his bank account.

But the worm-fisherman is no such proud and isolated soul. He is a "low
man" rather than a high one; he honestly cares what his friends will
think when they look into his basket to see what he has to show for his
day's sport. He watches the Foe of Compromise men go stumbling forward
and superbly falling, while he, with less inflexible courage, manages
to keep his feet. He wants to score, and not merely to give a pretty
exhibition of base-running. At the Harvard-Yale football game of 1903