Journeys Through Bookland, Vol. 2Sylvester, Charles Herbert
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Journeys Through Bookland, Vol. 2
Sylvester, Charles Herbert
Children's literature; Literature -- Collections
But he could not help thinking of what the otter had said about the
great river and the broad sea. And as he thought, he longed to go and
see them. He could not tell why; but the more he thought, the more he
grew discontented with the narrow little stream in which he lived, and
all his companions there; and wanted to get out into the wide, wide
world, and enjoy all the wonderful sights of which he was sure it was
full.
And once he set off to go down the stream. But the stream was very low;
and when he came to the shallows he could not keep under water, for
there was no water left to keep under. So the sun burned his back and
make him sick; and he went back again and lay quiet in the pool for a
whole week more.
And then on the evening of a very hot day he saw a sight.
He had been very stupid all day, and so had the trout; for they would
not move an inch to take a fly, though there were thousands on the
water, but lay dozing at the bottom under the shade of the stones; and
Tom lay dozing, too, and was glad to cuddle their smooth, cool sides,
for the water was quite warm and unpleasant.
But toward evening it grew suddenly dark, and Tom looked up and saw a
blanket of black clouds lying right across the valley above his head,
resting on the crags right and left. He felt not quite frightened, but
very still; for everything was still. There was not a whisper of wind,
nor a chirp of a bird to be heard; and next a few great drops of rain
fell plop into the water, and one hit Tom on the nose, and made him pop
his head down quickly enough.
And then the thunder roared, and the lightning flashed, and leaped
across Vendale and back again, from cloud to cloud, and cliff to cliff,
till the very rocks in the stream seemed to shake; and Tom looked up at
it through the water, and thought it the finest thing he ever saw in his
life.
But out of the water he dared not put his head; for the rain came down
by bucketfuls, and the hail hammered like shot on the stream and churned
it into foam; and soon the stream rose, and rushed down, higher and
higher, and fouler and fouler, full of beetles, and sticks, and straws,
and worms, and addle-eggs, and wood lice, and leeches, and odds and
ends, and this, that, and the other, enough to fill nine museums.
Tom could hardly stand against the stream, and hid behind a rock. But
the trout did not; for out they rushed from among the stones, and began
gobbling the beetles and leeches in the most greedy and quarrelsome way,
and swimming about with great worms hanging out of their mouths, tugging
and kicking to get them away from each other.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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