Trout Stream—Prince Edward Island'

is discarded. Top boots pulled on, pipes filled, and we wend our way up or down stream, toIsome favorite pool. Everything is quiet but the swish of the lines. The fish are lively but small; and just as we are tiring of that kind of sport our hearts are gladdened to see, peering through a cloud, the bright full moon. Her silver light replaces the fading after-glow of the sunset. The small fish sud- denly pause and disappear as if they had gone to their bed; and silence reigns in the forest.

Now we know that the real fun will begin, if there is to be any. Sure enough, before long, and without the slightest warning, a quick splash breaks the water, and the click, click, of Tom’s reel announces the hookng of the first three-pounder. The sportsman's heart beats high, as with practiced eye and feeling hand he follows the wild rushes of the speckled beauty, and finally, with doubled rod plays him into the shallows, where he is secured. And now the sport waxes warm. The water is beaten with foam as we fight with the struggling levia- thans, and the enthusiastic Harry rushes in to the neck, net in hand, to capture a fish that pulls like a whale. \Ve take our way back to camp with light hearts and heavy baskets. The ladies apostrophize the moon and the beauty of the night; but sentiment

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