DANVIS FARM LIFE 69 



brook whose braided current washes mossy, root- 

 woven banks, in old woods, gurghng over pebbly- 

 beds and plashing down lichened rocks into pools 

 where the wary trout lurks under the foam bells, or 

 slips through alder copses into meadows where it 

 winds almost hidden by the rank grass that over- 

 hangs its narrow course. 



Our rustic angler uses no nice skill in playing 

 or landing his fish, but having him well hooked 

 jerks him forth by main strength of arm and 

 clumsy pole and line, with a force that sends him, 

 whether he be perch or bull-pout, or, by lucky 

 chance, pike-perch or bass, in a curving flight high 

 overhead, and walloping with a resounding thud 

 on the grass far behind his captor. 



Perhaps all hands go to the nearest seining- 

 ground, and, buying a haul, stand an eager group 

 on the sandy beach, joking feebly while they nerv- 

 ously wait and watch the rippling curve of floats 

 as the net comes sweeping slowly in, bringing, 

 maybe, for their half-dollar, only a few worthless 

 clams and sunfish, or, if fortune favors, maybe a 

 floundering crowd of big fish, which, strung on a 

 tough twig, they carry home rejoicing. 



The housewife's fowls are conspicuous objects 

 now about the farmhouse — the anxious, fussy 

 hens, full of solicitude for then- broods, some, well 

 grown, straying widely from the coop in adven- 

 turous explorations or in awkward pursuit of in- 



