The Tent Dwellers #223803

Now, I confess there is something about a book of trout flies, even at the year's end, when all the brooks are flint and gorged with white, when all the north country hides under seamless raiment that stretches even to the Pole itself — even at such a time, I say, there is something about those bits of gimp, and gut, and feathers, and steel, that prick up the red blood of any man — or of any woman, for that matter who has ever flung one of those gaudy things into a swirl of dark water, and felt the swift, savage tug on the line and heard the mu31c of the singing reel.