S we entered the cool woods and came where we could hear the song of the brook, Uncle Eb cautioned me in a whisper, just as he used to do: “Now go careful.”
I found a rock at the head of a likely stretch of rapids on which he could sit comfortably as he fished. I prepared his tackle and baited his hook for him, and stood by as it went plunking into smooth water. Sitting there, he seemed to forget his feebleness, and his voice and figure were full of animation. His hair, as white as snow, was
like the crown of glory of which David sings.
He kept hauling and giving out. Now and then, as he felt a nibble, he addressed the fish: