46 The American Angler 
into the sunlight. It moves gaily over 
its bed as it washes the feet of the 
grasses along the bank. The trout I 
catch have light suits, as if in unison 
with their surroundings. 
Though it has passed from the shadow 
and mystery of the wood, the stream 
still holds its romance and its beauty. 
Even now, as if in appreciation of the 
charm, the hermit thrush pours forth 
his clear silvery song. Mellowed by the 
sound of the flowing waters it comes to 
me as the melody of the wilderness. 
Such places as these he loves. Dwel- 
ling apart from man, with no companion 
save his mate, and where his voice is 
alone in its clear, pulsing song, he is 
content: 
O singer serene, secure, 
From thy throat of silver and dew, 
What transport, lovely and pure, 
Unchanged, endlessly new; 
An unremembrance of mirth 
And a contemplation of tears, 
As if the nursing of earth 
Communed with the dreams of the years. 
On either side of the stream the moun- 
tains rise tall and majestic, guarding it 
from intrusion. As I follow its leading, 
and turn a bend, I think I am about to 
realize a dream of mythology. 
Almost directly before me, in front 
of a mass of riven rock, made more 
pure by its dark, rugged setting—clear, 
white and distinct—stands the form of 
a young girl. The waters of the azure 
pool at her feet, as if longing to em- 
brace her, ebb back and forth on the 
beach on which she stands, while be- 
yond it settles down into a large clear 
pool. 
Is this maiden the goddess of the 
stream ? What will happen if she sees 
me? Will I be turned to a tree, a 
shrub, a bush, for thusintruding on her 
privacy. I am seen. Quick as a flash 
the pool receives her in its waters; I see 
the white gleam of her form as she 
swims for the opposite shore where the 
forest receives her in its sheltering 
shadows. 
Having left the secluded confines of 
that enchanted pool some little way be- 
hind me, a rude, half house, half cabin, 
such as are built by first settlers, comes to 
view. Hanging from the porch by one 
string a sun-bonnet swings lazily in the | 
breeze. Can it belong to the goddess’ 
of the stream ? 
Just beyond the stream plunges once 
more over a bed of rock, but I let it go 
on unaccompanied; the sun has almost 
reached its journey’s end and my basket 
is pretty well filled. 
I cross the clearing in the direction 
of the old dilapidated fence that marks 
the apology of a road, and with the 
view of that azure pool still before me, 
and with the song of the hermit thrush 
as an accompaniment, I start on my 
homeward walk. 
