Then the cautious leg-straddled passage of the
swift current, during which we forgot for ever--which eternity alone
circles the bliss of an afternoon on the River--the chill of the water,
and so came to the trail.
Now, at the Idiot's Delight Dick and I parted company. By three o'clock
I came again to the River, far up, halfway to the Big Falls. Deuce
watched me gravely. With the first click of the reel he retired to the
brush away from the back cast, there to remain until the pool was
fished and we could continue our journey.
In the swift leaping water, at the smooth back of the eddy, in the
white foam, under the dark cliff shadow, here, there, everywhere the
bright flies drop softly like strange snowflakes. The game is as
interesting as pistol-shooting. To hit the mark, that is enough. And
then a swirl of water and a broad lazy tail wake you to the fact that
other matters are yours. Verily the fish of the North Country are
mighty beyond all others.
Over the River rests the sheen of light; over the hills rests the sheen
of romance. The land is enchanted. Birds dip and sway, advance and
retreat; leaves toss their hands in greeting, or bend and whisper one
to the other; splashes of sun fall heavy as metal through the yielding
screens of branches; little breezes wander hesitatingly here and there
to sink like spent kites on the nearest bar of sun-warmed shingle; the
stream shouts and gurgles, murmurs, hushes, lies still and secret as
though to warn you to discretion, breaks away with a shriek of hilarity
when your discretion has been assured.
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