Glancing from him to his late station I perceived a little group
of skaters gathered around my son and heir, who was dabbling with a stick
in the abandoned hole. They appeared to be diverted by something and one
of them, my friend Harry Bolles, who had his handkerchief up to his
mouth, made a bee-line to meet me. From his lips I learned what had
happened, which was this wise: The horny-handed pot-hunter, having
presently pulled a solitary pickerel out upon the ice and freed it from
his hook, turned aside to cut another piece of bait; whereupon my hopeful
picked up the fish and popped it back into its native element without so
much as a syllable of commentary; and thereupon (being act three in the
tragedy) he of the horny hand, having realized the situation in its
terrible entirety, pulled up his line, shovelled back the particles of
ice into the hole and betook himself upon his shambling way without one
word. Not a word, mark you. There was a real philosopher, if you like,
a thorough-going, square-trotting philosopher. The only alternative was
child-murder or silence, and my pot-hunter chose the simplest form of the
dilemma. "I thought the fish would like it," said little Fred, when
interrogated upon the subject.
And yet, despite my occasional inability to practice what I preach,
Josephine is correct in her diagnosis that my cast of mind is becoming
more philosophic as the years roll on.
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