The Open Air 



the senses to a drowsy idleness. Yonder was the 

 trout fisherman, just as I had imagined him, casting 

 and casting again with that transcendental patience 

 which is genius; his line and the top of his rod formed 

 momentary curves pleasant to look at. The king- 

 fisher did not come no doubt he had been shot but 

 a reed-sparrow did, in velvet black cap and dainty 

 brown, pottering about the willow near me. This 

 was really like the beautiful river I had dreamed of. 

 If only we could persuade ourselves to remain quies- 

 cent when we are happy! If only we would remain 

 still in the armchair as the last curl of vapour rises 

 from a cigar that has been enjoyed! If only we 

 would sit still in the shadow and not go indoors to 

 write that letter ! Let happiness alone. Stir not an 

 inch; speak not a word: happiness is a coy maiden 

 hold her hand and be still. 



In an evil moment I spied the corner of a news- 

 paper projecting from the pocket of my coat in the 

 stern-sheets. Folly led me to open that newspaper, 

 and in it I saw and read a ghastly paragraph. Two 

 ladies and a gentleman while boating had been carried 

 by the current against the piles of a weir. The boat 

 upset; the ladies were rescued, but the unfortunate 

 gentleman was borne over the fall and drowned. His 

 body had not been recovered; men were watching 

 the pool day and night till some chance eddy should 

 bring it to the surface. So perished my dream, and 

 the coy-maiden happiness left me because I could 

 not be content to be silent and still. The accident 

 had not happened at this weir, but it made no differ- 

 ence ; I could see all as plainly. A white face, blurred 

 and indistinct, seemed to rise up from beneath the 

 rushing bubbles till, just as it was about to jump to 

 the surface, as things do that come up, down it was 



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