lovely--the meadow brooks, gliding
silently beneath the deep-tufted grasses, where the trout live in shadow
even at noonday, and their speckled flanks are dark like the pools they
lie in; the pasture brooks, whose clear water is always golden from the
yellow sand and pebbles and leaves it ripples over, and the trout are
silvery and pale-spotted; the brooks of the deep woods, where the foam
of rapids and the spray of noisy little waterfalls alternate with the
stillness of rock-bound, hemlock-shadowed pools. All the brooks we
followed, whether with good luck or with bad, I remember with delight.
No, all except one. But I do not blame the brook.

It happened in this way: One Monday morning, after an abstemious Sunday,
the zeal of Jonathan brought us forth at dawn--in fact, a little before
dawn. I had consented, because, although my zeal compared to Jonathan's
is as a flapping hen compared to a soaring eagle, yet I reflected that I
should enjoy the sunrise and the early bird-songs. We emerged,
therefore, in the dusk of young morning, and I had my first reward in a
lovely view of meadows half-veiled in silvery mist, where the brook
wound, and upland pastures of pale gray-green against ridges of shadowy
woods. But I was not prepared for the sensation produced by the actual
plunge into those same meadows. I say plunge advisedly. I shiver yet as
I recall the icy chill of that dew-drenched grass. It was worse than
wading a brook, because there was no reaction. Jonathan, however, did
not seem depressed by it, so I followed his eager steps without remark.
We reached the brook, we put our rods together, and baited. "Crawl,
now," admonished Jonathan; "they're shy fellows in those open pools." We
crawled, dropped in, and waited. My teeth were chattering, my lips felt
blue, but I would not be beaten by a little wet grass. After a few
casts, Jonathan murmured, "That's funny," and moved cautiously on to the
next pool. Then he tried swift water, then little rapids. I proceeded in
chilly meekness, glad of a chance at a little exercise now and then when
we had to climb around rocks or over a stone wall. Occasionally I
straightened up and gazed out over the meadows--those clammy
meadows--and up toward the high woods, brightening into the deep greens
of daylight. The east was all rose and primrose, but I found myself
unable to think of the sun as an aesthetic feature; I longed for its
good, honest heat. A stove, or a hot soapstone, would hav