Then I perverted myself to the new, radical theory which says that
on a bright day you must use a light, gay fly, because it is more in
harmony with the sky, and therefore less noticeable.  Accordingly I
put on a Professor and a Parmacheene Belle; but this combination of
learning and beauty had no attraction for the ouananiche.

Then I fell back on a theory of my own, to the effect that the
ouananiche have an aversion to red, and prefer yellow and brown.  So
I tried various combinations of flies in which these colours
predominated.

Then I abandoned all theories and went straight through my book,
trying something from every page, and winding up with that lure
which the guides consider infallible,--"a Jock o' Scott that cost
fifty cents at Quebec."  But it was all in vain.  I was ready to
despair.

At this psychological moment I heard behind me a voice of hope,--the
song of a grasshopper: not one of those fat-legged, green-winged
imbeciles that feebly tumble in the summer fields, but a game
grasshopper,--one of those thin-shanked, brown-winged fellows that
leap like kangaroos, and fly like birds, and sing KRI-KAREE-KAREE-
KRI in their flight.

It is not really a song, I know, but it sounds like one; and, if you
had heard that Kri-karee carolling as I chased him over the rocks,
you would have been sure that he was mocking me.

I believed that he was the predestined lure for that ouananiche; but
it was hard to persuade him to fulfill his destiny.  I slapped at
him with my hat, but he was not there.  I grasped at him on the
bushes, and brought away "nothing but leaves."  At last he made his
way to the very edge of the water and poised himself on a stone,
with his legs well tucked in for a long leap and a bold flight to
the other side of the river.  It was my final opportunity.  I made a
desperate grab at it and caught the grasshopper.

My premonition proved to be correct.  When that Kri-karee, invisibly
attached to my line, went floating down the stream, the ouananiche
was surprised.  It was the fourteenth of September, and he had
supposed the grasshopper season was over.  The unexpected temptation
was too strong for him.  He rose with a rush, and in an instant I
was fast to the best land-locked salmon of the year.

But the situation was not without its embarrassments.  My rod
weighed only four and a quarter ounces; the fish weighed between six
and seven pounds.  The water was furious and headstrong.  I had only
thirty yards of line and no landing-net.

"HOLA!  FERDINAND!" I cried.  "APPORTE LA NETTE, VITE!  A BEAUTY!
HURRY UP!"

I thought it must be an hour while he was making his way over the
hill, through the underbrush, around the cliff.  Again and again the
fish ran out my line almost to the last turn.  A dozen times he
leaped from the water, shaking his silvery sides.  Twice he tried to
cut the leader across a sunken ledge.  But at last he was played
out, and came in quietly towards the point of the rock.  At the same
moment Ferdinand appeared with the net.