200
AN ANGLER AT LARGE
golden glow of the moon, now climbing among the branches of the elms in the close, I could see his vague but comfortable shape ambling softly from me. "Let me see you fish to-morrow," I called. "Nay, nay!" he replied, his voice lessened by distance, "not to-morrow, gentle sir; I must wait my year—my long, long year." Again I heard the gentle sigh, and with it the dark shadow that was my acquaintance became one with the blackness that filled a space between two ageless yews.
This is not true.
