As
I sat from time to time under the aspen, within hearing of the murmuring
water, the thought did rise occasionally that it was a pity to leave
the trout there till some one blundered into the knowledge of his
existence.

There were ways and means by which he could be withdrawn without any
noise or publicity. But, then, what would be the pleasure of securing
him, the fleeting pleasure of an hour, compared to the delight of seeing
him almost day by day? I watched him for many weeks, taking great
precautions that no one should observe how continually I looked over
into the water there. Sometimes after a glance I stood with my back to
the wall as if regarding an object on the other side. If any one was
following me, or appeared likely to peer over the parapet, I carelessly
struck the top of the wall with my stick in such a manner that it should
project, an action sufficient to send the fish under the arch. Or I
raised my hat as if heated, and swung it so that it should alarm him.

If the coast was clear when I had looked at him still I never left
without sending him under the arch in order to increase his alertness.
It was a relief to know that so many persons who went by wore tall hats,
a safeguard against their seeing anything, for if they approached the
shadow of the tall hat reached out beyond the shadow of the parapet, and
was enough to alarm him before they could look over. So the summer
passed, and, though never free from apprehensions, to my great pleasure
without discovery.

A LONDON TROUT

The sword-flags are rusting at their edges, and their sharp points are
turned. On the matted and entangled sedges lie the scattered leaves
which every rush of the October wind hurries from the boughs. Some fall
on the water and float slowly with the current, brown and yellow spots
on the dark surface. The grey willows bend to the breeze; soon the osier
beds will look reddish as the wands are stripped by the gusts. Alone the
thick polled alders remain green, and in their shadow the brook is still
darker. Through a poplar's thin branches the wind sounds as in the
rigging of a ship; for the rest, it is silence.

The thrushes have not forgotten the frost of the morning, and will not
sing at noon; the summer visitors have flown and the moorhens feed
quietly. The plantation by the brook is silent, for the sedges, though
they have drooped and become entangled, are not dry and sapless yet to
rustle loudly. They will rus