OF DEATH 291 



The net has done its regal work. A shudder 

 passes through him, through my hand, my arm, 

 to my heart. I have, then, done God's work, 

 which He appointed me to do. This reflection is 

 much more comforting than my last. I hug it to 

 my bosom. I basket the fish. But I am not 

 entirely happy, Ten years ago I should have run 

 all the way home to exhibit my three-pounder. 

 Youth is not to be touched by these morbid 

 thoughts. Happy youth ! The Lord of Creation 

 goes his way with a heavier basket. 



Sometimes, at such moments, a grisly idea has 

 come my way. It seems to me that somewhere there 

 is an Angler who casts baits for men and women. 

 Lik6 these same trout that live and feed and fight 

 and love in their stream, and know nothing of that 

 world of the outer air with its fields and trees and 

 birds and flowers and men, save that vague shadows 

 (some to be feared, others undreadful) move now 

 and then between themselves and the light, so we, 

 in our own element, perfectly satisfied with our 

 three dimensions, and only dimly perceiving the 

 possibility of a fourth, live and feed, love, fight, 

 and amuse ourselves, our equanimity disturbed only 

 by one dreadful shadow which moves at times 

 within our field of vision. What it is we do not 

 know, but it passes, and one of our number is gone. 

 Where we do not know either. But that our turn 



