AN EVENING BY THE MILL POND. 89 



Generously has the pond responded, but, 

 withal, it is a pond of fickle mood, and now 

 it assumes an uncompromising indifference. 



The grey humility of twilight succeeds 

 the crimson majesty of sunset; a sombre hue 

 creeps over the face of the water, and I wait 

 and watch a float that stays motionless. Ten- 

 tatively the bait is changed, and the spell of 

 inaction is broken by a perch that takes the 

 proffered worm, then makes for sanctuary 

 among the lilies. He makes a valiant fight 

 for freedom, but in the end he is lifted out, 

 still struggling, with dorsal fin defiantly erect. 

 Two others share his fate ere the hook fails ; 

 and a perch goes free to give the alarm, 

 only too effectually, for not another will the 

 pond surrender. Instead, it demonstrates the 

 unsuspected possibilities of its depths, for the 

 float goes down abruptly, and the handles of 

 the reel become merged and lost to sight in 

 the rapidity of its revolutions. For a second 

 there is the sensation of a heavy body con- 

 tending fiercely; the next, a broken line comes 

 feebly in. 



