name remained to remind one of other days, and one name is as good as
another to a trout brook.

My object was not so much to tempt the speckled trout with gaudy fly
from quiet pool or swirling riffle, as to follow the windings of the
stream, and spy out the quiet nooks, where the sun comes filtering
through the trees, dappling the water; or resting in the shadows where
the thick foliage defies its penetrating rays, and spreads a somber
hue on mossy rock or bed of ferns. At one place, perhaps a rod from
the margin of the brook, was a sort of amphitheater among the trees,
where nature had been prodigal with her colors, touching the woods in
spots here and there with ocher, umber, and vermilion. She had even
brushed with scarlet many of the shrubs and vines, until they glowed
with a warm color against the green background.

The pine trees had shed their needles, making a carpet soft as velvet,
where woodland elves might revel or the god Pan practice upon his
pipes, laughing nymphs dancing to the music.

Is there anything in nature more companionable than a mountain brook?
It has its moods both grave and gay, and is as fickle as a schoolgirl.
At times it chuckles at you in a musical undertone as you walk along
its banks, and again it seems to warn you from trespassing on its
preserves, scolding in a shrill falsetto as it dodges under the roots
of a fallen tree, or dives among the lilypads, as if to hide from
your sight. But when it swirls down the eddy, and comes to rest by an
overhanging rock, where the shadows are dark and the water deep, its
song is hushed, as if in fear of disturbing the wary trout that lie in
hiding in the depths of the pool.