IN THE JEWEL BOX 



are taken, though well advised as to how they are 

 eaten. 



I waded down to the head of a big semicircular 

 pool. Pound trout, two-pound trout and pound- 

 and-a-half whitefish were breaking there on the 

 evening feed. From their position on the steep 

 bank, thirty feet above the pool, the watchers could 

 see every fish distinctly, though I could not. 



"A little farther down no, to the right no, 

 this way there he is!" Someone on the bank 

 was going to be a trout enthusiast if this kept 

 up. And it did keep up until our little party 

 thought the basket had enough for breakfast. I 

 do not recall any pleasanter trout party in all my 

 life. 



All of us "true sportsmen" pose a bit. We like to 

 talk about the beauties of Nature and pretend that 

 we do not care for the fish or birds at all. That is 

 part of the doctrine of being a true sportsman, 

 perhaps. Yet I found my own mental impressions 

 so confused, whether by the trout or the sunset, 

 whether by the green of the willows round us, or 

 the blue of the sky above and the white of the 

 glaciers between, that I am on the point of saying 

 I cared not at all for those fish, and only for the 

 sunset and the wind and maybe the contented look 

 of one or two who occasionally peered into the 



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