H2 AN ANGLER'S HOURS ix 



we can see the small stream that skirts the 

 water-meadows, and beyond the vivid green, 

 which shows the richness of grass intersected 

 by countless rills of clearest crystal, we can 

 see the river itself gleaming in the sunlight. 

 Who cares for a little tar ? But soft, let 

 instinct work. Are we not descended from 

 the ape, and has not the ape four hands ? 

 Tar will not hurt our heavy boots, and the 

 gate may be so lifted, bracing the muscles of 

 the thigh, until it is fairly open and no harm 

 done, and it may be shut after the same 

 fashion. Then we wade knee-deep through 

 the long grass towards the little black 

 bridge that crosses the brook into the water- 

 meadow. 



No, there is no reason why we should 

 not pause a while here, and the elm just 

 shades the bridge nicely. The brook is 

 rather weedy, but observe the purity of the 

 water, the gold of the gravel, and the silver 

 of the sand in that little channel between 

 the streamers ; it is the ideal water for a few 

 fat trout. There is food in abundance, and 

 there are quiet corners under willows 

 separated by little merry stickles, in which 

 an honest fish may lie and capture every 



