XL 



OF DEATH 



I AM sitting beside the Island Pool where the 

 river pauses for a moment to circle solemnly 

 round, then flows on its way in a broad green and 

 amber glide. The Island Pool is deep and dark 

 and mysterious. Immortal fishes of incredible 

 size sometimes swim into the ken of him who, 

 lying flat with his nose over the camp-sheathing, 

 peers into its profundities. But they never rise 

 to the fly. 



No fishes in this river ever rise to the fly. They 

 used to, but that is long, long ago a whole 

 week. And they will never do it again. There 

 is no fly for them to rise to, and if there were 

 they would not rise to it. But there will never 

 be any more fly on this river. Nobody will ever 

 catch a fish here again on the fly. Dynamite 

 would cause some of them to float belly up. 

 There is something to be said for dynamite after 

 all. Here is an unworthy thought. I would not 

 really use dynamite if I had any. I do not know 



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