a tree."

"You little"--animal quite early in the alphabet--"now don't you stir a
peg, or I'll dig my elbow into you."

The great trout was stationary almost as a stone, in the middle of the
"V" above described. He was gently fanning with his large clear fins,
but holding his own against the current mainly by the wagging of his
broad-fluked tail. As soon as my slow eyes had once defined him, he grew
upon them mightily, moulding himself in the matrix of the water, as a
thing put into jelly does. And I doubt whether even John Pike saw him
more accurately than I did. His size was such, or seemed to be such,
that I fear to say a word about it; not because language does not
contain the word, but from dread of exaggeration. But his shape and
colour may be reasonably told without wounding the feeling of an age
whose incredulity springs from self-knowledge.

His head was truly small, his shoulders vast; the spring of his back was
like a rainbow when the sun is southing; the generous sweep of his deep
elastic belly, nobly pulped out with rich nurture, showed what the power
of his brain must be, and seemed to undulate, time for time, with the
vibrant vigilance of his large wise eyes. His latter end was consistent
also. An elegant taper run of counter, coming almost to a cylinder, as
a mackered does, boldly developed with a hugeous spread to a glorious
amplitude of swallow-tail. His colour was all that can well be desired,
but ill-described by any poor word-palette. Enough that he seemed to
tone away from olive and umber, with carmine stars, to glowing gold and
soft pure silver, mantled with a subtle flush of rose and fawn and opal.

Swoop came a swallow, as we gazed, and was gone with a flick, having
missed the May-fly. But the wind of his passage, or the stir of wing,
struck the merry dancer down, so that he fluttered for one instant on
the wave, and that instant was enough. Swift as the swallow, and more
true of aim, the great trout made one dart, and a sound, deeper than a
tinkle, but as silvery as a bell, rang the poor ephemerid's knell. The
rapid water scarcely showed a break; but a bubble sailed down the pool,
and the dark hollow echoed with the music of a rise.

"He knows how to take a fly," said Pike; "he has had too many to be
tricked with mine. Have him I must; but how ever shall I do it?"

All the way to Wellington he uttered not a word, but shambled along with
a mind full of care. When I ventured to look up now