AMONG THE BORDER STREAMS 201 



consciously, to the muffled voices, and swish of 

 lines, and stumbling of the wading fishers, at the 

 tail of the next stream ; and the startling night cry of 

 a pheasant from the woods ; I feel a large creature 

 brushing past, within a foot of me. The otter has 

 come out of the water to pass the waders ; and is 

 on his way to stiller pools farther up. The dance 

 becomes merrier. How that fish splashes ! It 

 needs a fine touch on the line to know that he is 

 out of the water, so as to get down the point of 

 the rod in time to prevent a catastrophe. At 

 length, the frequent rugging ceases. Only a few 

 big fish fall at intervals on the pool, as if from a 

 high leap. The rise goes off for awhile ; probably 

 to recommence later. But, I leave the rest to those 

 ardent fishers, who are out for the night, and will 

 go home just in time for breakfast, and work. It 

 is one o'clock when I climb the dyke, and take 

 my way back, amid the sevenfold shade of the 

 tree-covered road. 



A flood, after a rainless month, yields a good 

 basket. It scours away the accumulation of 

 bottom food ; and probably also, stirs the fish out of 

 the sickly, half-lethargic state into which they 

 had fallen. Such is almost the only condition 

 under which day-fishing is productive at this 



