82 WOODLAND IDYLS. 



never repeats itself when we a-fishing go. Not 

 even a sunny did the hole yield this day. Leav- 

 ing it I went on down, forcing my way through 

 dense thickets of willows and weeds and over 

 masses of driftwood along a wild untraveled 

 portion of the stream. Here there were no 

 fisherman's paths, no discarded poles or bait 

 cans. For this season at least it was in the 

 region of the unexplored. In such places one 

 always catches fish. In an hour I had twenty- 

 four sunfish, catfish and goggle-eyes not big to 

 be sure but big enough, when put together, to 

 not only scent the skillet but tickle the palate 

 with a meal of sustenance. The sun sank low 

 with the cork still bobbing. Three miles and 

 more were between me and camp. Reluctantly 

 I left the haunts of my boyhood friends, the 

 small fiy, and with another pan o' meat, gleaned 

 from nature herself, I homeward trudged, wad- 

 ing the stream twice to shorten the way. 



Often do I recall to mind how, when a boy, 

 on the first real warm days of spring I delighted 

 in casting aside my boots and running bare- 

 footed over the grass. How soft and yielding 

 it was. How the feet spread out muscle to 

 earth and took firm hold thereon. What a sense 

 of freedom each foot seemed to enjoy as it got 

 back to nature, back as were all other feet a 

 million years ago. It was so to-day when I shed 

 shoe and sock and waded the creek. How de- 



