BROWN WATERS 



rushing in where fools fear to tread. So 

 is it of fish. Terrified by the least move- 

 ment of the arm, shadow of rod and line, 

 an incautious footfall, touch of paddle 

 on gunwale. In another mood alarmed 

 by none of these, and perhaps seeking 

 shelter from the sun under your very 

 canoe. Where a cold mountain brook 

 mingles with a river is the pool of Les 

 Erables. Fishing at the meeting of the 

 waters, from a canoe held in mid- 

 stream, certain great trout were stirred 

 but would take none of the flies offered 

 them. Kneeling there and covering the 

 surface methodically, the idea slowly 

 emerged above the plane of conscious- 

 ness that something was touching my 

 left hand which lay in the water beside 

 the canoe, a bit of smooth drift-wood 

 perhaps, gently agitated by the current. 

 After a little time some animation in 

 the movement led me to bend over and 

 look. Believe it or not as you will, but 

 one of the big fellows that I was trying 

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