IN THE CATSKILLS 



beast, while threading my native streams for trout, 

 than in almost any other way. It furnished a good 

 excuse to go forth; it pitched one in the right key; 

 it sent one through the fat and marrowy places of 

 field and wood. Then the fisherman has a harm- 

 less, preoccupied look; he is a kind of vagrant that 

 nothing fears. He blends himself with the trees 

 and the shadows. All his approaches are gentle 

 and indirect. He times himself to the meandering, 

 soliloquizing stream; its impulse bears him along. 

 At the foot of the waterfall he sits sequestered and 

 hidden in its volume of sound. The birds know he 

 has no designs upon them, and the animals see that 

 his mind is in the creek. His enthusiasm anneals 

 him, and makes him pliable to the scenes and in- 

 fluences he moves among. 



Then what acquaintance he makes with the 

 stream ! He addresses himself to it as a lover to 

 his mistress; he wooes it and stays with it till he 

 knows its most hidden secrets. It runs through his 

 thoughts not less than through its banks there; he 

 feels the fret and thrust of every bar and boulder. 

 Where it deepens, his purpose deepens; where it is 

 shallow, he is indifferent. He knows how to inter- 

 pret its every glance and dimple; its beauty haunts 

 him for days. 



I am sure I run no risk of overpraising the charm 

 and attractiveness of a well-fed trout stream, every 

 drop of water in it as bright and pure as if the 

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