But a meadow brook was always a favorite. The trout like meadows;
doubtless their food is more abundant there, and, usually, the good
hiding-places are more numerous. As soon as you strike a meadow the
character of the creek changes: it goes slower and lies deeper; it
tarries to enjoy the high, cool banks and to half hide beneath them; it
loves the willows, or rather the willows love it and shelter it from
the sun; its spring runs are kept cool by the overhanging grass, and
the heavy turf that faces its open banks is not cut away by the sharp
hoofs of the grazing cattle. Then there are the bobolinks and the
starlings and the meadowlarks, always interested spectators of the
angler; there are also the marsh marigolds, the buttercups, or the
spotted lilies, and the good angler is always an interested spectator
of them. In fact, the patches of meadow land that lie in the angler's
course are like the happy experiences in his own life, or like the fine
passages in the poem he is reading; the pasture oftener contains the
shallow and monotonous places. In the small streams the cattle scare
the fish, and soil their element and break down their retreats under
the banks. Woodland alternates the best with meadow: the creek loves to
burrow under the roots of a great tree, to scoop out a pool after
leaping over the prostrate trunk of one, and to pause at the foot of a
ledge of moss-covered rocks, with ice-cold water dripping down. How
straight the current goes for the rock! Note its corrugated, muscular
appearance; it strikes and glances off, but accumulates, deepens with
well-defined eddies above and to one side; on the edge of these the
trout lurk and spring upon their prey.

The angler learns that it is generally some obstacle or hindrance that
makes a deep place in the creek, as in a brave life; and his ideal
brook is one that lies in deep, well-defined banks, yet makes many a
shift from right to left, meets with many rebuffs and adventures,