A WAYSIDE BROOK. 



179 



words, they have impressions, vague though 

 they may be, of the world about them, and ex- 

 istence is something more than 



" A cold, sweet, silver life, wrapped in round waves, 

 Quickened with touches of transporting fear." 



The brook need not be deep nor wide, and 

 may wander through many a rod of dusty fields, 

 scarcely covering the pebbles that bestrew its 

 bed, and yet contain fishes. I have often been 

 surprised to find many small -minnows in brooks 

 that were scarcely more than damp, except here 

 and there a spring-hole, or pool, about the roots 

 of a tree. Such places are noble hunting- 

 grounds if the rambler is an enthusiastic natu- 

 ralist, and many a chapter might be written con- 

 cerning our smallest fishes. Except to very few, 

 they are wholly unknown. 



On the bank of a little wayside brook I tar- 

 ried for half a day recently, with minnows, birds, 

 and dragon-flies to keep me company, and what 

 a royal time we had ! At first the fish were shy, 

 and took refuge under flat pebbles but I coaxed 

 them forth at last by tossing crumbs before them. 

 At ease, so far as I was concerned, they com- 

 menced their beautiful game of chasing sun- 

 beams, the largest stone in the stream being the 

 base from which they ceaselessly darted to and fro. 

 The flashing of the fishes' silvery sides, the dart- 



