From the haze of your consciousness, as through
a fog, loom the old familiar forest, and the hills, and the River.
Slowly you creep from that strange enchanted land. The sullen trout
yields. In all gentleness you float him within reach of your net.
Quietly, breathlessly you walk ashore, and over the beach, and yet an
unnecessary hundred feet from the water lest he retain still a flop.
Then you lay him upon the stones and lift up your heart in rejoicing.
How you get to camp you never clearly know. Exultation lifts your feet.
Wings, wings, O ye Red Gods, wings to carry the body whither the spirit
hath already soared, and stooped, and circled back in impatience to see
why still the body lingers! Ordinarily you can cross the riffles above
the Halfway Pool only with caution and prayer and a stout staff
craftily employed. This night you can--and do--splash across hand-free,
as recklessly as you would wade a little brook. There is no stumble in
you, for you have done a great deed, and the Red Gods are smiling.
Through the trees glows a light, and in the centre of that light are
leaping flames, and in the circle of that light stand, rough-hewn in
orange, the tent and the table and the waiting figures of your
companions. You stop short, and swallow hard, and saunter into camp as
one indifferent.
Carelessly you toss aside your creel--into the darkest corner, as
though it were unimportant--nonchalantly you lean your rod against the
slant of your tent, wearily you seat yourself and begin to draw off
your drenched garments.
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