CHAPTER IV 

 On the Banks of the Avon 



I NEVER see a small boy carrying a fishing pole 

 but I feel like following him off to those mar- 

 vellous places he knows, where the somnolent 

 sucker, lively chub or shiner, or rock bass await 

 the lure of the baited hook. My fishing preserve 

 was the Classic Avon, the Canadian stream of that 

 name, I mean, which, in the good old days, was, as 

 I remember it, a clear, rippling little river. This 

 was before it wore its strength out trying to force 

 its way through the sewage that has been pouring 

 into it. There were many good old swimmin' holes 

 and quiet pools where fish abounded. 



When I was a small boy I recall that the 

 precentor at the village church, who long 

 since joined the ''choir invisible,'* on festive 

 occasions used to sing that, to me, most beau- 

 tiful of all Burns 's songs, ''Flow Gently, Sweet 

 Afton." In my boyish fancy and childish inno- 

 cence I imagined that he was singing about the 

 Avon. The singer had a fine Doric accent so 

 the error I fell into may be pardonable, and then 

 I was in the juvenile class. I have loved the 

 Avon ever since, but it was a far, far dififerent 

 stream then, than now. There was then a fringe 



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