“Look out for your recover. That last cast was almost on the alders.” Three puffs. “Don’t draw your flies so fast; you don’t give them a chance to rise. Your flies are in the air more than on the water.” Two puffs. “I wouldn’t let out more line—I’d reel in. Nobody can handle a long line in a cut-up little place like this.”
The worm turned. “Walter, do I know how to fish or don’t I? And haven’t I been pulling in trout every minute? Look—seven! Why don’t you come and take them off for me, instead of sitting there and smoking?”
With that, down the road of the woods came a sound—an unwoods-like sound. Growing and clearing, it resolved itself into Lohengrin’s “Wedding March,” sung in a powerful bass:
Here comes the bride!
Get on to her stride!
The melody floated through the spruces, and across it cut mirth and plaintive squeals.
“Let me go! Ouch!” And a crash. “It’s no joke, I tell you, to step through a jagged stump when you’ve got bare legs on!” And with that Lohengrin stopped for a second, and heroic laughter filled the forest. Then
Here comes the bride!
Get on to her stride!
the orchestra repeated.