AN OPEN CREEL 



I_WATERS OF YOUTH ^ ^ o o 



THE other day, while turning out some old papers 

 by way of making the new year less crowded than 

 its predecessor, I came upon a faded old photograph 

 of a group of young people seated and standing in the 

 constrained fashion of those who are being sacrificed 

 to the amateur camera. One peculiarly villainous 

 countenance purports to be my own, and I should not 

 be too zealous to acknowledge the impeachment were 

 it not for a certain far-away look in the eyes which 

 has reminded me of something. I remember now that 

 I was looking through the leafless trees at a glint of 

 water, and wondering whether the three roach would 

 live or die. In moments of crisis, such as are caused 

 by the dentist's chair or the uncovered lens, one has 

 these flashes of disconnected thought. 



The three roach, as a matter of fact, were in the 

 water, a small pond between the garden and the 

 stable-yard, and I had put them there that morning 

 just before luncheon. They came from a little river 

 about half a mile away, and were the trophies of my 

 angle, brought home in a landing-net to convince 

 certain scoffers (the photograph punishes them enough) 



