Now I see the lads coming back across the foot-
bridge that spans the stream, with a bottle of milk from the nearest
farmhouse. They are laughing and teetering as they balance along
the single plank. Now the table is spread on the moss. How good
the lunch tastes! Never were there such pink-fleshed trout, such
crisp and savoury slices of broiled bacon. Douglas, (the beloved
doll that the younger lad shamefacedly brings out from the pocket of
his jacket,) must certainly have some of it. And after the lunch is
finished, and the bird's portion has been scattered on the moss, we
creep carefully on our hands and knees to the edge of the brook, and
look over the bank at the big trout that is poising himself in the
amber water. We have tried a dozen times to catch him, but never
succeeded. The next time, perhaps--
Well, the fireplace is still standing. The butternut-tree spreads
its broad branches above the stream. The violets and the bishop's-
caps and the wild anemones are sprinkled over the banks. The
yellow-throat and the water-thrush and the vireos still sing the
same tunes in the thicket. And the elder of the two lads often
comes back with me to that pleasant place and shares my fisherman's
luck beside the Swiftwater.
But the younger lad?
Ah, my little Barney, you have gone to follow a new stream,--clear
as crystal,--flowing through fields of wonderful flowers that never
fade.
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