94 LOCUSTS AND WILD HONEY 



than in almost any other way. It furnished a good 

 excuse to go forth; it pitched one in the right key; 

 it sent one through the fat and marrowy places of 

 field and wood. Then the fisherman has a harmless, 

 preoccupied look ; he is a kind of vagrant that no- 

 thing fears. He blends himself with the trees and 

 the shadows. All his approaches are gentle and in- 

 direct. He times himself to the meandering, solilo- 

 quizing stream; its impulse bears him along. At 

 the foot of the waterfall he sits sequestered and 

 hidden in its volume of sound. The birds know he 

 has no designs upon them, and the animals see that 

 his mind is in the creek. His enthusiasm anneals 

 him and makes him pliable to the scenes and influ- 

 ences he moves among. 



Then what acquaintance he makes with the stream ! 

 He addresses himself to it as a lover to his mistress; 

 he wooes it and stays with it till he knows its most 

 hidden secrets. It runs through his thoughts not 

 less than through its banks there; he feels the fret 

 and thrust of every bar and bowlder. Where it 

 deepens, his purpose deepens ; where it is shallow he 

 is indifferent. He knows how to interpret its every 

 glance and dimple; its beauty haunts him for days. 



I am sure I run no risk of overpraising the charm 

 and attractiveness of a well-fed trout stream, every 

 drop of water in it as bright and pure as if the 

 nymphs had brought it all the way from its source 

 in crystal goblets, and as cool as if it had been 

 hatched beneath a glacier. When the heated and 

 soiled and jaded refugee from the city first sees one, 



