There is a cosy little inn, called a camp, at the foot of a big
lake. In front of the inn is a huge dam of gray stone, over which
the river plunges into a great oval pool, where the trout assemble
in the early fall to perpetuate their race. From the tenth of
September to the thirtieth, there is not an hour of the day or night
when there are no boats floating on that pool, and no anglers
trailing the fly across its waters. Before the late fishermen are
ready to come in at midnight, the early fishermen may be seen
creeping down to the shore with lanterns in order to begin before
cock-crow. The number of fish taken is not large,--perhaps five or
six for the whole company on an average day,--but the size is
sometimes enormous,--nothing under three pounds is counted,--and
they pervade thought and conversation at the Upper Dam to the
exclusion of every other subject. There is no driving, no dancing,
no golf, no tennis. There is nothing to do but fish or die.
At first, Cornelia thought she would choose the latter alternative.
But a remark of that skilful and morose old angler, McTurk, which
she overheard on the verandah after supper, changed her mind.
"Women have no sporting instinct," said he. "They only fish because
they see men doing it. They are imitative animals.
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