To Mountain Tarn 



heart to the mouth, so lone is it. A small, wiry, 

 tanned man had possession. Most summer days 

 he was there, with no companion save his rod. 

 A borderer wants no other, and rather resents the 

 intrusion of a third. In glaring July sunshine, 

 when the water scarce covered the stones, he 

 fished the stream. 



In all my visions of the place he is there, wad- 

 ing in mid-current ; nor is it likely that I shall 

 ever get him out of the picture. He had the 

 defects as well as the qualities of the district. 

 One day, early in our acquaintance, I overtook 

 him, casting in a not- to-be-denied way; he always 

 fished with bait. "Had he taken anything?" 

 "Ay, a basketful!" The basket in question sat 

 lightly on his shoulders. In league with its 

 master it looked grave, as though it were stuffed. 

 Like the blotches on the moon, the signs of wear 

 gave it an almost human expression. I half 

 suspected it of relaxing into a wink when my 

 back was turned. A strange trio, whom long 

 fellowship had brought to a perfect understand- 

 ing, were the basket, the rod, and the man. The 

 angler went on casting, hooked a trout, and 

 waded to the side to land it. I heard it fall 

 through space and strike against the straw bot- 

 tom. It was the first. 



" I sent them home by a boy." This he said 

 with the look of irony the borderer keeps for a 

 stranger. So his forbears might have said to 



