The River of Feathers 73 



the water. And now he is in the air, lashing him- 

 self like a tarpon, hurling crystal drops of spray 

 at me and the whispering aspens. But the 

 little fly clings to his jaw like a fifth cousin, 

 and down he goes, to make a straight-away run 

 of fifty feet that is irresistible. I let him go 

 because he wills it, then when I check him on 

 the turn up he goes again, a whirling Dervish 

 of the pool, trying, perhaps, to look at me and 

 invoke the gods of Lassen, then down, to come 

 up-stream to the deep pool he knows so well, 

 running along the edge of the drinking willows 

 with slack line, despite my reeling; and then 

 up again, just where the early sunlight bursts 

 through the willows, having the centre of the 

 stage with all the lights turned on, up he goes 

 pirouetting, dancing on his tail, displaying 

 every beauty of tint, shape, and avoirdupois. 



Down to the bottom of the pool he goes, cours- 

 ing here and there, striking sturdy blows upon 

 rod and line, then again up-stream into the field 

 of my companion, who just now comes up over 

 the bank holding a colossus he has netted. How 

 long this rhapsody continued I do not know or 

 care, but if all the druids of the stream, all the 

 gods were not on the side of that trout, were 

 not aiding and abetting his attempts at escape, 

 I miss my guess, as time and again I was sure he 

 was gone, and for twenty minutes he kept me 

 running up and down this radiant pool, giving 



