Chapter 1. In Which I Am A Caitiff
_ CHAPTER I. IN WHICH I AM A CAITIFF
I was sitting at one of my favorite spots engaged in looking through my fly-book for some lure that might, perhaps, mend my luck in the afternoon‘s fishing. At least, I had within the moment been so engaged； although the truth is that the evening was so exceptionally fine, and the spot always so extraordinarily attractive to me--this particular angle of the stream, where the tall birches stand, being to my mind the most beautiful bit on my whole estate--that I had forgotten all about angling and was sitting with rod laid by upon the bank, the fly-book scarce noted in my hand. Moreover, a peculiarly fine specimen of Anopheles, (as I took it to be) was at that very moment hovering over my hand, and I was anxious to confirm my judgment as well as to enlarge my collection of mosquitoes. I had my other hand in a pocket feeling for the little phial in which I purposed to enclose Anopheles, if I could coax him to

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