Above this lower heaven I could hear a tournament of bobolinks. They flew over me, and clung in the grass tops and sang—their notes bursting out like those of a plucked string. What a pressure of delight was behind them! Hope and I used to go there for berries when we were children, and later—when youth had come, and the colors of the wild rose and the tiger-lily were in our faces—we found a secret joy in being alone together. Those days there was something beautiful in that hidden fear we had of each other—was it not the native, imperial majesty of innocence? The look of 8055 her eyes seemed to lift me up and prepare me for any sacrifice. That orchestra of the meadow spoke our thoughts for us—youth, delight and love were in its music. Soon I heard a merry laugh and the sound of feet approaching, and then the voice of a young man. “Mary, I love you,” it said, “and I would die for your sake.” The same old story, and I knew that he meant every word of it. What Mary may have said to him I know well enough, too, although it came not to my ears; for when I rose, by and by, and crossed the woodland and saw them walking up the slopes, she all in white and crowned with meadow flowers, I observed that his arm supported her in the right way. I took down my rod and hurried up 8056 stream, and came soon where I could see Uncle Eb sitting motionless and leaning on a tree trunk. I approached him silently. His head leaned forward; the “pole” lay upon his knees. Like a child, weary of play, he had fallen asleep. His trout lay in a row beside him; there were at least a dozen. That old body was now, indeed, a very bad fit, and more—it was too shabby for a spirit so noble and brave. I knew, as I looked down upon him, that Uncle Eb would fish no more after that day. In a moment there came a twitch on the line. He woke suddenly, tightened his grasp, and flung another fish into the air. It broke free and fell upon the ripples. “Huh! ketched me nappin',” said he. “I declare, Bill, I'm kind o' shamed.” 8057 I could see that he felt the pathos of that moment. “I guess we've fished enough,” he said to himself, as he broke off the end of the pole and began to wind his line upon it. “When the fish hev t' wake ye up to be hauled in its redic'lous. The next time I go fishin' with you I'm goin' t' be rigged proper.” In a moment he went on: “Fishin' ain't what it used t' be. I've grown old and lazy, an' so has the brook. They've cut the timber an' dried the springs, an' by an' by the live water will go down to the big sea, an' the dead water will sink into the ground, an' you won't see any brook there.” We began our walk up one of the cowpaths. “One more look,” said he, facing about, and gazing up and down the 8058 familiar valley. “We've had a lot o' fun here—'bout as much as we're entitled to, I guess—let 'em have it.” So, in a way, he deeded Tinkle Brook and its valley to future generations.