A River Path. 25 



of many a willow trunk that, torn away from the bank 

 far up the stream, has been hurled against the stone- 

 work with all the fury of an angry river whose peat- 

 stained waters, swollen ten or even twenty feet above 

 their peaceful level, have left heaps of drifted rubbish, 

 high and dry among the alder-tops, to mark the tide- 

 line of the winter spates. 



Just in sight, at the bend of the stream, is a chain of 

 deep pools, where lie some of the finest trout in the 

 river ; here and there among them no doubt a veteran 

 of stubborn fight, wearing still, as trophies of victory, 

 points of rusting hooks, and frayed ends of broken 

 collars. 



The fisherman's eye kindles at the recollection ; his 

 grasp tightens on his quivering rod ; and, in spite of 

 old experience and fixed resolve, there will flit across 

 his fancy visions of the last struggles of that mighty 

 fish, whose end he has so often planned in vain. 



There have been blank days in his past records 

 and blank days are still in store for him while trout 

 survive and rivers run days of biting east or coming 

 thunder, when he ransacked his fly-book to no purpose, 

 and changed his cast in vain ; when he was fain to lay 

 aside the useless rod, and stroll idly up the stream, 

 listening to the birds, or watching the trout playing in 

 the clear shallows. 



But those idle hours by the river with its beauty 

 and its music, its life and its unfailing charm, may 

 rank among his brightest memories. 



