BROOK TROUT 



joys in the fresh wind, and the gulls soaring above 

 North River I 



How green the grass is ! And there, peeping 

 through, he sees several wild violets, blue as the sky 

 at which they gaze. Presto I the jaded and listless 

 look is gone from the man's face ; his heart leaps and 

 hope comes strong and welcome ; for before him, 

 summoned by memory, are the violets and the vistas, 

 the thorn-blossoms, robins, pheasants, arbutus, and lil- 

 ies along the chattering flow of his favorite trout- 

 stream I 



Trinity bells are pealing " Rock of Ages " ; but the 

 echoes of those peals sing another song to him in his 

 need of rest. It is : " Only two weeks more I I'hen you 

 shall be fish/ ng for trout on the little Slagle River ! " 



How slowly the fortnight drags by I But a morning 

 comes when, before three o'clock, he is actually wading 

 that stream. At last ! Since midnight all the jewels 

 of the skies of June have been shining keenly. It is 

 wild, remote, with even the camp a mile away. He is 

 at the entrance to the Lower Glen. Over the high 

 banks are thickets of thorn-bushes, their wealth of 

 snow-white blossoms filled with dewdrops which have 

 caught and hold the starlight ! 



Through that sweetest of all earthly things, wild- 

 flower air, comes the far hooting of owls in lonely 

 nocturne. There are whiffs of mint scents, faint smells 

 of fragrant birch and pine-balsam. The slight stir of 

 a sleepy breeze wakes a low whisper in some of the 



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