net had torn out and he splashed out through the net into the water. Then I executed a feat for which I believe I deserve a medal. I netted that fish in my creel, which was almost half full.

On one of the days of our trip Eand I fished this particular pool together. I was fishing wet that day with two flies on my cast. I hooked two fish, both of them better than ten inches. I don't know what I should have done if she had not been with me, but she succeeded in netting both at once by some marvellous means and landing them, though in doing

water, the leader wound around the bushes. To prove the fact that the old maxim "the best fish got away" is not necessarily true, I hereby attest that while he was lying there I was able to scoop him in with the landing-net.

Later on, George Scott and I fished other stretches of stream. From early morning to evening there is nothing that is more delightful than wading streamthe vagaries of the fish are so infinite. Both of us cast in one pool. He was using a large fly wet. I was using very small dark flies dry. We got no rises of any

sort, kind, or description. Just for luck, I shifted to a No. 14 Parmachene Belle, a fly on which I had caught no fish up to that time, and the first cast brought a splendid eleven-inch fish.

Trout-fishing was not the only fishing we had. We spent a couple of days after small-mouth red-eyed black bass. Troutfishing is my first choice, my second fishing for small-mouth. The trout is a gentleman of sorts-a cavalier. He is gorgeously garbed, he is delicately built, he is gallant. There is more of the rapier than the battle-axe about him. The small-mouth, on the other hand, is the soldier of fortune-the professional warrior. He is garbed in sombre colors. His build is chunky and powerful. He strikes like a thunderbolt and fights with a dashing ferocity.

We sought the bass in the lakes. The lakes were clear as an autumn morning. Their shores were fringed with half-submerged logs and roots. Under them the bass lay. I used a five-ounce fly-rod with a Wilder-Dilge lure, and cast a long line among the snags. I tried to make my lure land as close to the stump as possible. When I was in luck and the gentleman home and hungry, as the lure fluttered over the water, a dark shadow would dash from under the snag. There would be a swirl and splash, and my rod would bend like a hoop. To and fro he would rush the line, zigzagging through the water. Then would come a splash, and out of the water he would leap, scattering drops like a fountain. At times we would bring him to net, at times a slack line mournfully reeled in would tell of the success of his pluck and strength. George Scott was "high line" in so far as the heaviest bass was concerned. He caught a "largemouth" that weighed six pounds. I, however, got the heaviest "small-mouth," a

beauty weighing three and a half pounds, and he fought for fully ten minutes.

There were two particularly delightful fishermen that I met during this trip. The first was Judge Jacob M. Dickinson. The judge is a Cleveland Democrat-even though a Republican, I admit that a Cleveland Democrat is a very fine type. He had been born more than "threescore years and ten" ago in the old South, on the Mississippi. He had been a Cabinet member. He had a wealth of anecdotes and memories, from the old plantation days to the present times. Furthermore, he is one of those rare people who paint word-pictures in their stories, so that characters and scenes seem to rise before your eyes. One day, when bass-fishing, we passed by him, fishing also. He was rowing his grandson, who was trolling. Age has not dimmed his interest or courage, and he fights for conservation or against the Ku Klux Klan with the vigor of twenty years.

The judge was with me when I met another delightful old fisherman who owns a lovely place in the woods, to which he invited us. This latter was John Kiernan. He, like the judge, was in the seventies. He came out to northern Wisconsin when it was a wilderness. He had made his way in lumbering, not at a desk job, but out in the woods. At seventyseven, gray-haired, clear-eyed, he was as active in the woods as a boy.

Like all good things, the holiday came to an end all too soon, and we had to go home; so, brown as berries, we took off our leaders, reeled in our lines, and started back for the East and work. Though the trip was over, it left us all better in every way-"soules" and "bodies."

Here my story ends. Good luck to all fishermen! As Izaak Walton says: "They be such honest, civil, quiet men."

LMOST every one in America is familiar with the picturesque form of the Dutch windmill, but not so many, perhaps, are aware that this beautiful feature of the Dutch landscape seems doomed by the introduction of modern machinery, and may soon, along with the galleons and square-riggers, become only a memory of the past. Already many mills have fallen under the hand of the wrecker. The cause is entirely an economic one, the power-driven engines being more dependable than the wind. It is often found necessary to tear down the old mills and replace them with modern factories or electrical pumps and motors. Sometimes the motor is put inside the old mill and the wings removed. It is a sad sight, a mill shorn of its wings; a wingless eagle could not look more forlorn. Nowadays mills destroyed by fire are not replaced; the new mill is almost invariably a modern mechanical one.

Technically the windmill is one of the most important works in the history of engineering in Holland, and the first mill builders may well be considered the worthy forebears of the mechanical engineers

of to-day. He who would take the trouble to carefully study the construction of a good old mill would be astonished at the inventiveness and pure constructive genius of those early makers. Similar in charm and beauty to the old sailing vessels, the windmill is, like them, the result of many years of experimenting and development, detail by detail, until that state of perfection is reached where every part, as in a ship, has its function and is indispensable to the whole. The final achievement is that essential beauty of use and service that no mere ornamental attempt at decoration can ever bring forth.

At present, in the effort to save the mills, some engineers are considering the possibility of placing a motor next to the mill, enabling it to work in the absence of wind. This seems a practical and economical solution. Another scheme is to have the drive-wheel operated by electricity. But progressive engineers are in favor of replacing the wind power entirely by forces more reliable. "This is the new era," they say. "The windmill has had its day and must make way for progress, for modern machinery and dependable power." Fortunately the windmill has a strong and true champion in the society De Hollandsche Molen, a valiant

group of men inspired by a great love for the beauty of their native land, who are freely giving of their time and money in an effort to save this old landmark. They are encountering opposition, sometimes total indifference, on the part of owners, and results are often discouraging, but

ation to the artists for centuries, from the great Rembrandt to the famous school of The Hague, with Israëls, the Maris brothers, Weisenbruch, Gabriel, and many others. Always closely connected with Dutch traditions, it has played a very important part in the reclaiming of the

land and making Holland the prosperous country she is to-day.

Little is known of the origin of the windmill. Like many another useful human invention, it seems to have had its beginnings in the remotest ages. Titus Livius says that in the time of Hannibal's trip across the Alps, 180 B. C., the Carthaginians saw windmills in the valleys below. They are supposed, too, to have been brought from the Orient by the Crusaders, appearing in Paris in the first part of the twelfth century and later in the Netherlands. The first paper-mill in Holland was built in 1586 at Alkmaar. But this > was not the first in Europe; according to the Arabic writer, Edrisi, the first paper-mill operated by wind was built at Xativa, Spain, in the beginning of the sixteenth century. Don Quixote's battle with the windmill clearly proves that they were familiar sights to Cervantes during his lifetime, 1547-1616. Therefore Holland lays no claim to having invented the windmill, but she has perfected her own kind.

nevertheless they have succeeded in saving more than a few fine specimens. One remarkable success: after the burning of a grain mill at Hoogezand, they persuaded the owners to replace it by a bigger one of the same type. Unfortunately this is a rare accomplishment; new windmills are practically never built these days. This society has launched a prize competition to try and find the most successful way of solving the problem to adapt the old mill to modern needs and yet save its exterior beauty.

These thoughtful men realize that the demolishing of the windmill would rob Holland of one of her greatest charms. It has been the constant source of inspir

According to Soeteboom's "Saanland's Arcadia," before the eighty years' war with Spain, windmills were not numerous in Holland. Previous to this time most mills were operated by horse-power, not having changed much since Samson replaced the ass and ground the Philistines' corn. This almanac also states that the first sawmill was invented by Cornelis Cornelison, of Uitgeest, in 1592. The inventor took his mill to Zaandam