l satisfied with the sport obtained there, but the
resident farmers tell me that there is even finer fishing up stream.

Like the average fisherman, I am more or less superstitious, and
having always had good luck at my favorite place (the edge of a fine
piece of wood, which, by the way, contain a few woodcock), I do not
care to seek further, and, perhaps, fare worse.

Here, where the stream branches off from a wide pond-like section,
and slowly flows past two dozen or so fine willows on either bank, I
have made a rude seat in one of the trees, and using a coat for a
cushion, have spent many pleasant hours; not always fishing, but on
hot summer afternoons, shaded from the sun, just letting my line run
out in the water, careless about either rise or catch, in quiet
repose, looking at the beautiful natural landscape around me, fairly
enchanted with its rural splendor. Then I feel that for a short
space, at least, I have thrown off the burden of a busy life, and
can quietly absorb all that Dame Nature thus generously affords. I
see the silvery sky-reflecting stream winding its peaceful way
through the rich pasturage, under the rustic bridge, past the line of
undulating willows, that, moving with the faintest breath of air,
seem ever bending down to kiss its ripples; past the green banks and
orchards, on through clover patches, and sedge-lined promontories,
flashing like burnished metal at the rifts, black as night in the
pools, dappled and flecked by the mirrored clouds, kissed into "cat's
paws" by the faint breeze; on it goes until its farther course is
lost in the shadow of the olive-green woods that tower in massive
darkness against the soft amber-colored clouds and pale blue sky. The
watchful kingfisher, perched on the other side of the stream, eyes me
askance but has no great fear at my presence, the splash of a
disturbed turtle or the heavier fall of a diving frog calling for his
more earnest attention. Bass are leaping in every direction; far up
on the hillside sounds the bell of a cow; nearer still calls "Bob
White;" robins are piping; the wrens are chirping; a hungry crow
dismally cawks, and all these sounds mingle with the music of the
millions of trilling nameless tiny insects concealed in the deep
grasses below me and in the fluttering leaves over-head.

What greater pleasure can a busy man wish for than to now and again
"leave life and the world behind" for a few hours and amid
surroundings like these smoke