But what was not a delight in that river? There was the water to splash and paddle in, with stones for those who liked to practice hardening their feet, and patches of sand where one could enjoy that delicious half-tickling sensation of feet sinking and sand oozing up between all one's toes; then there were the pools for sailing boats; and the current in the middle for floating hats, with all the fun of not being quite sure whether they could be caught in time.
The rocks covered over with thick sunny moss for warming cold feet, and all the wonderful things that were to be found in the river,—things that came floating down, things that grew, and things that had got there somehow. Then there were the islands; the trout and the minnows.
It was to one of the islands that the children were going, and when they got down upon the beach they found their beloved river fuller and rather more energetic, but just as bright and tempting as it always was on these lovely autumn mornings. The water looked like clear brown crystal in the sunlight, and soon everything was forgotten in the excitement of looking for trout. Not a fish did they see this morning, till, just as they were crossing the stepping-stones to a little island, Winnie pulled Murtagh's jacket, and pointed silently to where a great fellow lay under a rock, the sun shining on his spotted side.
"Ah!" whispered Murtagh, "isn't he a beauty?"
They stood a minute watching, but the trout scarcely moved.
"How still he keeps," whispered Winnie; "I believe I could catch him in my hands."
In a minute she had set her saucepan down on the stone, pulled off her shoes and stockings, and was cautiously stepping into the water. The icy cold of it made her screw up her eyes, but on she went trying to make as little splash as possible. Still the trout never moved. Murtagh's interest was intense; he could scarcely refrain from giving a shout. Winnie could hardly believe her own good fortune. She got close up behind the trout; she bent down; her hands were just closing on it, when—there was a tremendous splash behind her, and in an instant the trout had whisked far away out of sight. She closed her hands with a convulsive grasp at its tail, but it was no use,—it was clean gone.
"You little idiot, Murtagh! you might have waited till I'd caught him," she said angrily.
"I beg your pardon awfully, Winnie," said Murtagh, a picture of abject penitence; "I didn't do it on purpose. I didn't see I was come to the edge of the stone."
"Who said you did it on purpose?" replied Winnie. "You might have looked where you were going."