Jonathan and I differ about a great many things; how otherwise are we to avoid the sloughs of bigoted self-satisfaction? But upon one point we agree: we are both convinced that on a beautiful morning in April or May or June there is just one thing that any right-minded person really wants to do. That is to turn a deaf ear to duty and a blind eye to all other pleasures, and--find a trout brook. We are, indeed, able to understand that duty may be too much for him--may be quite indifferent to his deaf ear and shout in the other, or may even seize him by the shoulders and hold him firmly in his place. He may not be able so much as to drop a line in the brown water all through the maddening spring days. But that he should not want to--ache to--this we cannot understand. We do know that it is not a thing to be argued about. It is temperamental, it is in the blood, or it is not. Jonathan and I always want to. Once it was almost the end of April, and we had been wanting to ever since March had gone out like a lion--for in some parts of New England a jocose legislature has arranged that the trout season shall begin on April Fool's Day. Those who try to catch trout on April first understand the joke. "Jonathan," I said over our coffee, "have you noticed the weather to-day?" "Um-m-pleasant day," he murmured abstractedly from behind his newspaper. "Pleasant! Have you felt the sunshine? Have you smelt the spring mud? I want to roll in it!" Jonathan really looked up over his paper. "Do!" he said, benevolently. "Jonathan, let's run away!" "Can't. There's a man coming at--" "I know. There's always a man coming. Tell him to come to-morrow. Tell him you are called out of town." "But you have a lot of things to-day too--book clubs and Japanese clubs and such things. You said last night--" "I'll tell them _I'm_ called out of town too. I _am_ called--we're both called, you know we are. And we've got to go." "Really, my dear, you know I want to, but--" "No use! It's a runaway. Get the time-table and see which is the first train to anywhere--to nowhere--who cares where!" Jonathan went, protesting. I let him protest. A man should have some privileges. We took the first train. It was a local, of course, and it trundled jerkily along one of the little rivers we knew. When the conductor came to us, Jonathan showed him our mileage book. "Where to?" he asked mechanically, but stiffened to attention when Jonathan said placidly, "I don't know yet. Where _are_ we going, my dear?" "I hadn't thought," I said; "let's see the places on the map." "Well, conductor," said Jonathan, "take off for three stations, and if we don't get off then, you'll find us here when you come around, and then you can take off some more." The conductor looked us both over. We were evidently not a bridal couple, and we didn't look quite like criminals--he gave us up.