157 



(osk 

 fhe S^ufcasf 



color-steeped water below, in his bright gar- 

 ments. Water will not wet him, though he 

 plunge a dozen times beneath the surface. Koskomenos 

 His clatter is harsh, noisy, diabolical; yet 

 his plunge into the stream, with its flash of 

 color, its silver spray, and its tinkle of smitten 

 water, is the most musical thing in the 

 wilderness. 



As a fisherman he has no equal. His 

 fishy, expressionless eye is yet the keenest 

 that sweeps the water, and his swoop puts 

 even the fish-hawk to shame for its certainty 

 and its lightning quickness. 



Besides all these contradictions, he is soli- 

 tary, unknown, inapproachable. He has no 

 youth, no play, no joy except to eat ; he asso- 

 ciates with nobody, not even with his own 

 kind ; and when he catches a fish, and beats 

 it against a limb till it is dead, and sits with 

 head back-tilted, swallowing his prey, with a 

 clattering chuckle deep down in his throat, a 

 suspicion creeps over you, as you watch, that 

 the birds are right in casting him out ; that 

 there is too much lizard still left in him to 

 class him properly among the fowls of the air. 



