I am sitting beside the Island Pool where the river pauses for a moment to circle solemnly round, then flows on its way in a broad green and amber glide. The Island Pool is deep and dark and mysterious. Immortal fishes of incredible size sometimes swim into the ken of him who, lying flat with his nose over the camp-sheathing, peers into its profundities. But they never rise to the fly.
No fishes in this river ever rise to the fly. They used to, but that is long, long ago—a whole week. And they will never do it again. There is no fly for them to rise to, and if there were they would not rise to it. But there will never be any more fly on this river. Nobody will ever catch a fish here again—on the fly. Dynamite would cause some of them to float belly up. There is something to be said for dynamite after all. Here is an unworthy thought. I would not really use dynamite if I had any. I do not know
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