was able, I threw into him a sudden perception of his danger, and a frenzied desire to get away.  But, either the trout had had all the grasshoppers he wanted, or he was able, from long experience, to perceive the difference between a natural exhibition of emotion and a histrionic imitation of it, for he slowly turned, and, with a few slight movements of his tail, glided back under the bank.  In vain did the grasshopper continue his frantic efforts to reach the shore; in vain did he occasionally become exhausted, and sink a short distance below the surface; in vain did he do everything that he knew, to show that he appreciated what a juicy and delicious morsel he was, and how he feared that the trout might yet be tempted to seize him; the fish did not come out again.

Then I withdrew my line, and moved back from the stream.  I now determined to try Mr. Trout with a fly, and I took out the paper old Peter Gruse had given me.  I did not know exactly what kind of winged insects were in order at this time of the year, but I was sure that yellow butterflies were not particular about just what month it was, so long as the sun shone warmly.  I therefore chose that one of Peter’s flies which was made of the yellowest feathers, and, removing the snood and hook from my line, I hastily attached this fly, which was provided with a hook quite suitable for my desired prize.  Crouching on the grass, I again approached the brook.  Gaily flitting above the glassy surface of the water, in all the fancied security of tender youth and innocence, came my yellow fly.  Backward and forward over the water he gracefully flew, sometimes rising a little into the air, as if to view the varied scenery of the woods and mountains, and then settling for a moment close to the surface, to better inspect his glittering image as it came up from below, and showing in his every movement his intense enjoyment of summer-time and life.

Out from his dark retreat now came the trout, and settling quietly at the bottom of the brook, he appeared to regard the venturesome insect with a certain interest.  But he must have detected the iron-barb of vice beneath the mask of blitheful innocence, for, after a short deliberation, the trout turned and disappeared under the bank.  As he slowly moved away, he seemed to be bigger than ever.  I must catch that fish!  Surely he would bite at something.  It was quite evident that his mind was not wholly unsusceptible to emotions emanating from an awakening appetite, and I believed that if he saw exactly what he wanted, he would not neglect an opportunity of availing himself of it.  But what did he want?  I must certainly find out.  Drawing myself back again, I took off the yellow fly, and put on another.  This was a white one, with black blotches, like a big miller moth which had fallen into an ink-pot.  It was surely a conspicuous creature, and as I crept forward and sent it swooping over the stream, I could not see how any trout, with a single insectivorous tooth in his head, could fail to rise to such an occasion.  But this trout did not rise.  He would not even come out from under his bank to look at the swiftly flitting creature.  He probably could see it well enough from where he was.