very still, only the ripple and plash of the brook breaking the mid-afternoon silence. Even the birds were hushed. But the mosquitoes, at least, were active, and Chub, hot and discouraged, brushed them away and sighed for a breeze. Finally he sat down on the ground and for the twentieth time viewed the contents of his fly-book in perplexity. It seemed as though it contained every sort of fly that the heart of trout could desire.
“Finicky things,” muttered Chub. “I’d just like to know what they do want.” He picked out a pretty brown and gray fly tentatively. “That ought to please any one. Maybe, though, they don’t like the taste of them. I suppose, when you come to think of it, steel and feathers and silk thread aren’t very appetizing—except to look at. If I was a trout I’d much rather have a good worm or a nice, juicy grasshopper.”
He paused and stared thoughtfully at the flies. Then,
“Plagued if I don’t try it!” he murmured.
He got up and retraced his steps to the clearing. Ordinarily it’s the easiest thing in the world to catch a grasshopper. All you have to
