The River of Feathers 75 



dainty moods, reminded me of a line by some- 

 body, from somewhere : " Music is nothing else 

 but wild sounds civilized into time and tune." 



As I was casting around a bend I came upon 

 an angler lying in the shade of a bunch of wil- 

 lows, and as the wind touched the leaves and 

 made real music, I referred to it. But he re- 

 garded me with suspicion, and I fancied I saw 

 him looking at the big water-wheel down-stream 

 as though there might be some association yet. 

 Surely this was no place for real things, for 

 anything but imaginings. 



The little stream that had been flowing quietly 

 along the forest now turned to the east, nar- 

 rowed, gathered its strength, and in wild and 

 turbulent fashion dashed on into the open where 

 the banks were higher, and in the big meadow 

 wound about, leading one to quiet waters, a 

 bay of springs where the cold water could be 

 seen oozing up through the sand, and not far away 

 a musical fall came down through a deep and 

 well-wooded canon where trout of all sizes abode. 



I have often noticed that luck of a specious 

 quality attends a novice. Beaching the centre 

 of the meadow, free and innocent of trees, I 

 was walking along, casting here and there, when 

 I overtook an angler who said he had been there 

 over an hour casting for big trout. With rare 

 camaraderie, which means that it was very good 

 of him, he asked me to try a cast. It was a 



