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Some of the hats still have a few dejected flies fastened to the ribbon, melancholy hackles, sadly ruffled Royal Coachmen, and here and there the determined gayety of the Parmachene Belle. I look at my worn and rubbed high-laced boots, at my riding-clothes, snagged with many briers and patched from many saddles, at my old brown velours hat, survival of many storms in many countries.
And the answer came in clear, ringing, boyish tones from another angler presumably momentarily rainbowing the wood. "Yes sure that Parmachene belle is the girl, Dad! If if there's a trout in the stream, she'll put the 'come hither! on it." "Bah! Likening a trout-fly to a girl! So like his 'nickum' impudence!" Pem's teeth in her present mood came together with a snap.
The first day on the lake we caught sixty-nine cut-throat trout averaging a pound each, and this without knowing where to look. In the morning, we could see them lying luxuriously on shelving banks in the sunlight, only three to six feet below the surface. They rose, like a shot, to the flies. For some reason, George Locke, our fisherman, resented their taking the Parmachene Belle.
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