To-morrow we go away.
In half an hour it will be too dark to fish.
Let us hurry on to the Mill pool. I always hurry on to the Mill pool, for it used to be the best place on the river. Here is broad water and deep, scooping out the bank in a great S all along which the little dimpling rises were wont long ago to tell of great feeding trouts. I always hope to see them again.
Perhaps to-night.
Below the Mill hatch is camp sheathing, thirty yards of it and rough water against it. And you know what that means. Only this summer it doesn't. Below the camp sheathing is a willow. Its roots, in the rough water, always hold a patch of floating weed, and you know what that ought to mean.
Below this willow is a thin rapid which is never without its rises (but they are all little graylings this year). And out on the glide beyond there was
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