Page 33:
Ralph was staring at a trout that was eating tiny mayflies in the eddy behind a rock right next to where they were sitting. The trout's flanks were orange, and its spots were as crimson as fresh drops of blood. The fish wasn't more than six or seven inches long, but it was full of spunk and aggression, ready and eager to spawn. Calhoun thought it was a treasure, this little native brook trout living and reproducing here in the little stream behind his cabin in the Maine woods. It was descended from the trout that were left behind when the glaciers receded eons ago. It was some kind of miracle.
0 comments:
Post a Comment