Now, also, is the time when friend gives much advice to friend on the
subject of the "gentle art." (A trout's opinion on this branch of art,
by the by, would be worth having. Perhaps he might not consider it so
gentle.)

One student of the angle will say to another, "Always fish up the
stream. Fish lie with their heads to the current and their tails in the
opposite direction: therefore, by casting up-stream, you run the less
chance of being seen by them."

Another says, "Be sure you make your casts down-stream; your bob-flies
like it better, as you can see by the way they dance on the ripples."

Quoth another, "Always soak your casting-lines with water before you
start for the river-side;" while a fourth instructs you never to
straighten your lines with water, but by passing them through a piece of
India rubber doubled between the finger and thumb.

_Our_ advice is, Never cast against the wind. In fact, you can't do it;
and if you try it, you run the risk of getting _strabismus_--that is,
the Cast in your eye. Artificial flies, like artificial flowers, never
should follow nature. Manufacturers of both articles perfectly
understand this; and hence the superiority of their productions to the
mere realities that flutter and bloom for their brief hour, and then
die. There is nothing in entomology so beautiful as a well-busked trout
or salmon fly. And then it is comparatively indestructible. Take a
natural May Fly and squeeze it in your hand. It is reduced to a pulp.
Try the same experiment with an artificial one, and its plumage remains
unruffled--which is more than you do, since the chance is that you will