PAN-FISHING 



When she recovers her angling instinct the 

 bait is all gone, and she will straightway for- 

 get the glory of the shore and sky in lament- 

 ing the perfidy of the fish that got away. She 

 enjoys the sport as you used to when you were 

 a boy. 



A cloudy day, and one when the wind is 

 blowing from the south or south-west, and 

 with occasional lapses of sunlight through 

 the shadows, is a typical fishing day. There 

 is a seclusion to such days that full-lighted 

 days do not possess. The wind writes liquid 

 messages on the surface of the lake that fade 

 in the writing and sink swiftly into shadow, 

 like the names of all the long-forgotten dead. 

 The sun strikes seldom through the barriers 

 of trailing cloud, but when striking his flashes 

 are as sword-cuts with a jewel-hilted blade. 

 The birds do not sing and only at long inter- 

 vals is their flight marked from the gently 

 rocking skiff. The hills are like huge, 

 crouching mammoths, shaggy with forest and 

 thicket, and buried in a century-old repose. 

 The shadows rule, and the wind is as rollick- 

 ing as a boy on his summer holiday. 



Pan-fish are very good eating, some people 

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