From Fox's Earth 



the tall grasses grow, and the white willow bends. 

 More than once the line surges down. Each time 

 it swirls in the eddy, the sedge-warbler scolds, 

 because its nest is there. 



At length is a check. The hook may have 

 caught on something in the bottom. If a bite, it 

 is a slow bite. The angler watches the tremor 

 curiously ; so do I. When the strain is put on, it 

 comes away like a twig ; and like a black twig 

 it appears on the surface only it is a living twig. 

 It is an eel which has lived in the eddy where 

 the white willow leaves dip just under the nest, 

 and in a kind of summer comradeship with the 

 sedge-warbler. 



It is the penalty for dabbling in brown water ; 

 at any time unsportsmanlike. Eels are alive in 

 a spate. The rush and swirl stir up the muddy 

 bottom, and there is so much to eat. The angler 

 gazes helplessly at his catch ; it is a yard long, 

 hopelessly hooked and twisted in a dozen coils 

 round the gut cast. The only resource is to 

 make a present of so much as it has swallowed 

 and give it a chance. No use in killing even 

 an eel. 



A look of disgust comes into the sensitive 

 face. There is a natural shrinking from anything 

 so snake-like. It is hardly fair. We owe some 

 return. Before I have done I hope to invest the 

 wriggling form with a wonder, absent from its 

 brighter stream-mates. So that next time we 



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