Downstream in a Canoe 133 



and placid, my own mood became contempla- 

 tive. How often I thought, during that cruise, 

 of the passage of the " living waters." It 

 seemed to me that all waters that foamed and 

 gleamed, bubbled and gurgled, roared and 

 leapt, were living. 



That noon we had stopped at the mouth of 

 a stream, clear as crystal, and as cold as ice. 

 I knew the moment I saw this pure little 

 brook that it contained trout. The trout is 

 in some ways a very particular fish, and he is 

 especially fussy about his abode. 



A trout cannot tolerate muddy, sluggish 

 water. The brook that he inhabits must leap 

 and sparkle. The trout is a leaping, spark- 

 ling fish, and his stream must match his own 

 character. There must be no moss on the 

 stones in his brook, and no frog spittle. 



So the little brook being limpid and pure 

 had provided our dinner in the form of a 

 dozen handsome trout. After the fish were 

 dressed, a thin strip of pork had been put 

 inside each, and then they had been put in 

 the ashes. 



