come there by some chance; this is the water-parsnip.

By the shore on this, the sunny side of the bridge, a few forget-me-nots
grow in their season, water crow's-foot flowers, flags lie along the
surface and slowly swing from side to side like a boat at anchor. The
breeze brings a ripple, and the sunlight sparkles on it; the light
reflected dances up the piers of the bridge. Those that pass along the
road are naturally drawn to this bright parapet where the brook winds
brimming full through green meadows. You can see right to the bottom;
you can see where the rush of the water has scooped out a deeper channel
under the arches, but look as long as you like there are no fish.

The trout I watched so long, and with such pleasure, was always on the
other side, at the tail of the arch, waiting for whatever might come
through to him. There in perpetual shadow he lay in wait, a little at
the side of the arch, scarcely ever varying his position except to dart
a yard up under the bridge to seize anything he fancied, and drifting
out again to bring up at his anchorage. If people looked over the
parapet that side they did not see him; they could not see the bottom
there for the shadow, or if the summer noonday cast a strong beam even
then it seemed to cover the surface of the water with a film of light
which could not be seen through. There are some aspects from which even
a picture hung on the wall close at hand cannot be seen. So no one saw
the trout; if any one more curious leant over the parapet he was gone in
a moment under the arch.

Folk fished in the pond about the verge of which the sedge-birds
chattered, and but a few yards distant; but they never looked under the
arch on the northern and shadowy side, where the water flowed beside the
beech. For three seasons this continued. For three summers I had the