OF DEATH 289 



miserable and wasting old age, of starvation. For 

 this is the undoubted end of all such creatures as es- 

 cape destruction at the fangs of their fellows. Thus 

 we defend fox-hunting, thus hare- coursing, thus the 

 pheasant battue. At first sight the argument 

 seems unanswerable. It is certainly best to die 

 quickly. But to live long that, too, is good. 

 There, I feel, is a sort of point of view. I know 

 it is a foolish one, but it sticks in my mind. 



Away from the river I can see the force of all 

 these observations. But on the bank they have 

 less force. Perhaps I put my head carefully over 

 a bank, and there, not six feet below my eyes, is a 

 trout, a great golden-green fellow in the prime of 

 his splendid life. Three pounds he weighs (when 

 I grass him). He has won gallantly through the 

 perils of his fishing days, swimming faster, exer- 

 cising more wariness, feeding harder than the 

 others of his year. And now, one out of what 

 is it, a hundred thousand ? two hundred million ? 

 that have succumbed, he lies there in the sun- 

 light just above cool emerald weeds, sucking in 

 the sweet little duns as his bountiful stream carries 

 them above his head. With what ease he keeps 

 his place against the rapid current; with what 

 whole-hearted, admirable gluttonry he gulps his 

 breakfast ; what a gorgeous, lithe, perfect animal 

 is this that I would strike into hideous rigidity. 



