In Angling Time 



down the street, between bird-peopled trees, 

 it seems somehow as if you had been born 

 again that morning as if you had entered 

 anew into the freshness and sweetness and 

 young hope of life. Your heart is as light 

 as the boy's, and they flow together like 

 two streams from which the separating bar 

 rier has been broken down. 



The walk to the woods is full of pleasant 

 talk and warm confidences. No father, I 

 think, has ever quite known his boy until he 

 has gone fishing with him. Nor has any 

 boy known his father until they have shared 

 such companionship. Blessed is the man 

 whose soul does not become infected with 

 the senescence of his body! It is a pitiful 

 fate, I think, for a soul to grow old like 

 bones and muscles. 



Then, when you have come to the stream 

 in the odorous balsam woods, and the roar 

 of it drowns all your talk, and you have 

 little means of communicating thenceforth 

 save by gestures, you rig your tackle, and 

 put on a worm, and settle down to the solid 

 enjoyment of the day. You let the boy go 

 on ahead down stream, to have the first cast 

 in the likely holes, and you follow, now 



43 



