his day's fishing to beg a cup of red cow's milk, that anglers were
"honest, civil, quiet men." I have, also, a habit of contemplation,
which I am told is proper to an angler. I can lean longer than most
across the railing of a country bridge if the water runs noisily on
the stones. If I chance to come off a dusty road--unless hunger stirs
me to an inn--I can listen for an hour, for of all sounds it is the
most musical. When earth and air and water play in concert, which are
the master musicians this side of the moon, surely their harmony rises
above the music of the stars.

In a more familiar mood I throw stepping stones in the water to hear
them splash, or I cram them in a dam to thwart the purpose of the
stream, laying ever a higher stone when the water laps the top. I
scoop out the sand and stones as if a mighty shipping begged for
passage. Or I rest from this prodigious engineering upon my back and
watch the white traffic of the clouds across the summer sky. The roots
of an antique oak peep upon the flood as in the golden days of Arden.
Apple blossoms fall upon the water like the snow of a more kindly
winter. A gay leaf puts out upon the channel like a painted galleon
for far adventure. A twig sails off freighted with my drowsy thoughts.
A branch of a willow dips in the stream and writes an endless trail of
words in the running water. In these evil days when the whole fair
world is trenched and bruised with war, what wisdom does it send to
the valleys where men reside--what love and peace and gentleness--what
promise of better days to come--that it makes this eternal stream its
messenger!

And yet a stream is best if it is but an incident in travel--if it
break the dusty afternoon and send one off refreshed. Rather than a
place for fishing it invites one to bathe his feet. There are, indeed,
persons so careful of their health as to assert that cold water
endangers blisters. Theirs is a prudence to be neglected. Such persons
had better leave their feet at home safely slippered on the fender. If
one's feet go upon a holiday, is it fair that for fear of consequence
they be kept housed in their shoes? Shall the toes sit inside their
battered caravans while the legs and arms frisk outside? Is there such
torture in a blister--even if the prevention be sure--to outweigh the
pleasure of cold water running across the ankles?

It was but lately that I followed a road that lay off the general
travel through a pleasant cou