268 WHAT I HAVE SEEN WHILE FISHING 



this last morning, when, without delay, the river 

 fulfilled its promise. The fish was on, and the 

 sport for kings was mine. The issue of this 

 pleasure you already know. 



Then I rested, smoked my pipe, and listened to 

 the music of the many falling waters as others do 

 to the songs of birds, and even while I stood thus 

 listening the air grew icy-cold, and the sounds grew 

 less and less. 



A frost was on the hills, and a biting wind was 

 creeping down the mountain side, freezing, whiten- 

 ing, beautifying, and transforming everything within 

 its grip. 



As the river fell, it left a frozen trail, from which 

 innumerable icicles grew downwards, gathering 

 length and substance from the lapping water, and 

 its further falling gradually exposed tiers of shelving 

 rock to the freezing air, on which bands of ice 

 came out to form the heads of fringes that soon 

 bedecked the river's course. 



In the sunken current great floes were passing 

 down that presently joined to make the bars 

 that kept the stream enchained, and thus made 

 fast prisoners of the sagacious and well-housed 

 fish. Fantastic icy ribbons replaced the tumbling 

 burns that streaked the lofty sides of the over- 

 shadowing hills. Then came the snow, on which 

 the waiting wind hurriedly pounced to build what 

 more was needed to complete a wondrous trans- 

 formation scene. 



