64 GOLDEN DAYS 



share only a little of our joy with brothers 

 of the blood, what fragment of its fringe 

 will others find — our other friends who do 

 not fish ? " But isn't it rather dull ?" they 

 ask, remembering Paris, and vaguely a 

 long line of fishers, motionless and vigi- 

 lant, who guard the river Seine. *' It 

 would require too much patience." 

 For them it would, and doubtless we 

 are wise to keep a golden silence, thank- 

 ful for waters yet not over-fished, and 

 friends who still respect a patient, medi- 

 tative turn of mind, even when they find 

 us odd and very dull. Perhaps, how- 

 ever, that philosophic and contemplative 

 mood which is necessary to perfect con- 

 tentment in angling only comes with years. 

 Youth is so full of the fever of pursuit, 

 that there is no time to put the rod down 

 even for five^ minutes while we light a 

 ruminative pipe. Unfortunately, some of 

 us never grow up. We are too keen on 

 excitement. We change our fly often, 

 and rush on from pool to pool, harassed 

 and worried, spoiling what should be the 

 joy of a summer's day. Yet none of us 

 can quite spoil it. Sooner or later we 



