It was a still sweet day of early summer; the long afternoon shadows of the trees lay cool across our path; the leaves seemed greener, the flowers brighter, the birds merrier, than ever before.
My uncle, who knew by long experience where were the best haunts of pickerel, considerately placed me at the most favorable point.

I threw out my line as I had so often seen others, and waited anxiously for a bite, moving the bait in rapid jerks on the surface of the water in imitation of the leap of a frog.

Nothing came of it.

"Try again," said my uncle.

Suddenly the bait sank out of sight.