Here are countless frogs, and fish--tench; also a boat that belongs to
the man who rents the fishing. A sad accident happened lately with his
boat. A party of youngsters came for an outing and two boys jumped into
the tub, rowed out, and capsized it with their pranks. They were both
drowned--a painful and piteous death--a death which I have tried, by
accident, and can nowise recommend. They fished them out later from
their slimy couch, and found that they had clasped one another so
tightly in their mortal agony that it was deemed impious ever to
unloosen that embrace. So they were laid to rest, locked in each other's
arms.
While my companion told me these things we had plodded further and
further along this flat and inhospitable shore, and grown more and more
taciturn. We were hungry and thirsty and hot, for one feels the
onslaught of these first heats more acutely than the parching drought of
August. Things looked bad. The luncheon hour was long past, and our
spirits began to droop. All my mellowness took flight; I grew snappy and
monosyllabic. Was there no shade?
Yonder ... that dusky patch against the mountain? Brushwood of some
kind, without a doubt. The place seemed to be unattainable, and yet,
after an inordinate outlay of energy, we had climbed across those torrid
meadows. It proved to be a hazel copse mysteriously dark within,
voiceless, and cool as a cavern.
Be sure that he who planted these hazels on the bleak hillside was no
common son of earth, but some wise and inspired mortal.
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