The net has done its regal work. A shudder passes through him, through my hand, my arm, to my heart. I have, then, done God's work, which He appointed me to do. This reflection is much more comforting than my last. I hug it to my bosom. I basket the fish. But I am not entirely happy. Ten years ago I should have run all the way home to exhibit my three-pounder. Youth is not to be touched by these morbid thoughts. Happy youth! The Lord of Creation goes his way with a heavier—basket.
Sometimes, at such moments, a grisly idea has come my way. It seems to me that somewhere there is an Angler who casts baits for men and women. Like these same trout that live and feed and fight and love in their stream, and know nothing of that world of the outer air with its fields and trees and birds and flowers and men, save that vague shadows (some to be feared, others undreadful) move now and then between themselves and the light, so we, in our own element, perfectly satisfied with our three dimensions, and only dimly perceiving the possibility of a fourth, live and feed, love, fight, and amuse ourselves, our equanimity disturbed only by one dreadful shadow which moves at times within our field of vision. What it is we do not know, but it passes, and one of our number is gone. Where we do not know either. But that our turn
