One shore of the pool was a spacious sweeping curve of the sward, dotted with clumps of blue flag-flowers.  From the green fringes of this shore the bottom sloped away softly over a sand so deep and glowing in its hue of orange-yellow as to give the pool the rich name by which it was known for miles up and down the hurrying Clearwater.  The other shore was a high, overhanging bank, from whose top drooped a varied leafage of birch, ash, poplar, and hemlock.  Under this bank the water was deep and dark, a translucent black with trembling streaks and glints of amber.  Fifty yards up-stream a low fall roared musically; but before reaching the fresh tranquillity of the pool, the current bore no signs of its disturbance save a few softly whirling foam clusters.  Light airs, perfumed with birch and balsam and warm scents of the sun-steeped sward, drew over the pool from time to time, wrinkling and clouding its glassy surface.  Birds flew over it, catching the small flies to whom its sheen was a ceaseless lure.  And huge dragon-flies, with long, iridescent bodies and great jewelled, sinister eyes, danced and darted above it.

The cool black depths under the bank retained their coolness through the fiercest heats of summer, because just here the brook was joined by the waters of an icy spring stealing down through a crevice of the rocks; and here in the deepest recess, exacting toll of all the varied life that passed his domain, the master of Golden Pool made his home.

For several years the great trout had held his post in the pool, defying every lure of the crafty fisherman.  The Clearwater was a protected stream, being leased to a rich fishing club; and the master of the pool was therefore secure against the treacherous assaults of net or dynamite.  Many times each season fishermen would come and pit their skill against his cunning; but never a fly could tempt him, never a silvery, trolled minnow or whirling spoon deceive him to the fatal rush.  At some new lure he would rise lazily once in awhile, revealing his bulk to the ambitious angler,-but never to take hold.  Contemptuously he would flout the cheat with his broad flukes, and go down again with a grand swirl to his lair under the rock.

It was only to the outside world-to the dragon-fly, and the bird, and the chattering red squirrel in the overhanging hemlock-that the deep water under the bank looked black.  To the trout in his lair, looking upward toward the sunlight, the whole pool had a golden glow.  His favourite position was a narrow place between two stones, where he lay with head up-stream and belly about two inches from the sandy bottom, gently fanning the water with his party-coloured fins, and opening and closing his rosy gill-fringes as he breathed.  In length he was something over twenty inches, with a thick, deep body tapering finely to the powerful tail.  Like all the trout of the Clearwater, he was silver-bellied with a light pink flush, the yellow and brown markings on his sides light in tone, and his spots of the most high, intense vermilion.  His great lower jaw was thrust forward in a way that gave a kind of bulldog ferocity to his expression.

The sky of the big trout’s world was the flat surface of Golden Pool.  From the unknown place beyond that sky there came to his eyes but moving shadows, arrangements of light and dark.  He could not see out and through into the air unobstructedly, as one looks forth from a window into the world.  Most of these moving shadows he understood very well.  When broad and vague, they did not, as a rule, greatly interest him; but when they got small, and sharply black, he knew they might at any instant break through with a splash and become real, coloured things, probably good to eat.  A certain slim little shadow was always of interest to him unless he was feeling gorged.  Experience had taught him that when it actually touched the shining surface above, and lay there sprawling helplessly with wet wings, it would prove to be a May fly, which he liked.  Having no rivals to get ahead of him, there was no need of haste.  He would sail up with dignity, open his great jaws, and take in the tiny morsel.

Sometimes the moving shadows were large and of a slower motion, and these, if they chanced to break through, would prove to be bright-coloured moths or butterflies, or glittering beetles, or fat black and yellow bumblebees, or lean black and yellow wasps.  If he was hungry, all these things were good for food, and his bony, many-toothed mouth cared nothing for stings.  Sometimes when he was not at all hungry, but merely playful, he would rise with a rush at anything breaking the sheen of his roof, slap it with his tail, then seize it between his hard lips and carry it down with him, only to drop it a moment later as a child might drop a toy.  Once in awhile, either in hunger or in sport, he would rise swiftly at the claws or wing-tips of a dipping swallow; but he never managed to catch the nimble bird.  Had he, by any chance, succeeded, he would probably have found the feathers no obstacle to his enjoyment of the novel fare.

At times it was not a shadow, but a splash, that would attract his attention to the shining roof of his world.  A grasshopper would fall in, and kick grotesquely till he rose to end its troubles.  Or a misguided frog, pursued perhaps by some enemy on land, would dive in and swim by with long, webbed toes.  At this sight the master of the pool would dart from his lair like a bolt from a catapult.  Frogs were much to his taste.  And once in a long time even a wood-mouse, hard pressed and panic-stricken, would leap in to swim across to the meadow shore.  The first time this occurred the trout had risen slowly, and followed below the swimmer till assured that there was no peril concealed in the tempting phenomenon.  After that, however, he always went at such prey with a ferocious rush, hurling himself half out of water in his eagerness.

But it was not only to his translucent sky that the master of the pool looked for his meat.  A large part of it came down upon the current of the brook.  Bugs, grubs, and worms, of land and water, some dead, others disabled or bewildered by their passage through the falls, contributed to his feasting.  Above all, there were the smaller fish who were so reckless or uninformed as to try to pass through Golden Pool.  They might be chub, or suckers, or red-fin; they might be-and more often were-kith and kin of his own.  It was all the same to the big trout, who knew as well as any gourmet that trout were royal fare.  His wide jaws and capacious gullet were big enough to accommodate a cousin a full third of his own size, if swallowed properly, head first.  His speed was so great that any smaller fish which he pursued was doomed, unless fortunate enough to be within instant reach of shoal water.  Of course, it must not be imagined that the great trout was able to keep his domain quite inviolate.  When he was full fed, or sulking, then the finny wanderers passed up and down freely,-always, however, giving wide berth to the lair under the bank.  In the bright shallows over against the other shore, the scurrying shoals of pin-fish played safely in the sun.  Once in a long while a fish would pass, up or down, so big that the master of the pool was willing to let him go unchallenged.  And sometimes a muskrat, swimming with powerful strokes of his hind legs, his tiny forepaws gathered childishly under his chin, would take his way over the pool to the meadow of the blue flag-flowers.  The master of the pool would turn up a fierce eye, and watch the swimmer’s progress breaking the golden surface into long, parabolic ripples; but he was too wise to court a trial of the muskrat’s long, chisel-like teeth.

There were two occasions, never to be effaced from his sluggish memory, on which the master of the pool had been temporarily routed from his mastership and driven in a panic from his domain.  Of these the less important had seemed to him by far the more appalling.

Once, on a summer noonday, when the pool was all of a quiver with golden light, and he lay with slow-waving fins close to the coldest up-gushing of the spring which cooled his lair, the shining roof of his realm had been shattered and upheaved with a tremendous splash.  A long, whitish body, many times his own length, had plunged in and dived almost to the bottom.  This creature swam with wide-sprawling limbs, like a frog, beating the water, and leaping, and uttering strange sounds; and the disturbance of its antics was a very cataclysm to the utmost corners of the pool.  The trout had not stayed to investigate the horrifying phenomenon, but had darted madly down-stream for half a mile, through fall and eddy, rapid and shallow, to pause at last, with throbbing sides and panting gills, in a little black pool behind a tree root.  Not till hours after the man had finished his bath, and put on his clothes, and strode away whistling up the shore, did the big trout venture back to his stronghold.  He found it already occupied by a smaller trout, whom he fell upon and devoured, to the assuaging of his appetite and the salving of his wounded dignity.  But for days he was tremulously watchful, and ready to dart away if any unusually large shadow passed over his amber ceiling.  He was expecting a return of the great, white, sprawling visitor.

His second experience was one which he remembered with cunning wariness rather than with actual terror.  Yet this had been a real peril, one of the gravest with which he could be confronted in the guarded precincts of Golden Pool.  One day he saw a little lithe black body swimming rapidly at the surface, its head above the water.  It was about ten feet away from his lair, and headed up-stream.  The strange creature swam with legs, like a muskrat, instead of with fins like a fish, but it was longer and slenderer than a muskrat; and something in its sinister shape and motion, or else some stirring of an inherited instinct, filled the big trout with apprehension as he looked.  Suddenly the stranger’s head dipped under the surface, and the stranger’s eyes sought him out, far down in his yellow gloom.  That narrow-nosed, triangular head with its pointed fangs, those bright, cruel, undeceivable eyes, smote the trout with instant alarm.  Here was an enemy to be avoided.  The mink had dived at once, going through the water with the swiftness and precision of a fish.  Few trout could have escaped.  But the master of the pool, as we have seen, was no ordinary trout.  The promptness of his cunning had got him under way in time.  The power of his broad and muscular tail shot him forth from his lair just before the mink got there.  And before the baffled enemy could change his direction, the trout was many feet away, heading up for the broken water of the rapids.  The mink followed vindictively, but in the foamy stretch below the falls he lost all track of the fugitive.  Angry and disappointed he scrambled ashore, and, finding a dead sucker beside his runway, seized it savagely.  As he did so, there was a smart click, and the jaws of a steel trap, snapping upon his throat, rid the wilderness of one of its most bloodthirsty and implacable marauders.  A half-hour later the master of the pool was back in his lair, waving his delicate, gay-coloured fins over the yellow sand, and lazily swallowing a large crayfish.  One claw of the crayfish projected beyond his black jaw; and, being thus comfortably occupied, he turned an indifferent eye upon the frightened swimming of a small green frog, which had just then fallen in and disturbed the sheen of his amber roof.

Very early one morning, when all his world was of a silvery gray, and over the glassy pallor of his roof thin gleams of pink were mingled with ghostly, swirling mist-shadows, a strange fly touched the surface, directly above him.  It had a slender, scarlet, curving body, with long hairs of yellow and black about its neck, and brown and white wings.  It fell upon the water with the daintiest possible splash, just enough to catch his attention.  Being utterly unlike anything he had ever seen before, it aroused his interest, and he slanted slowly upward.  A moment later a second fly touched the water, a light gray, mottled thing, with a yellow body, and pink and green hairs fringing its neck.  This, too, was strange to him.  He rolled a foot higher, not with any immediate idea of trying them, but under his usual vague impulse to investigate everything pertaining to his pool.  Just then the mist-swirls lifted slightly, and the light grew stronger, and against the smooth surface he detected a fine, almost invisible, thread leading from the head of each fly.  With a derisive flirt of his tail he sank back to the bottom of his lair.  Right well he knew the significance of that fine thread.

The strange flies skipped lightly over the surface of the pool, in a manner that to most trout would have seemed very alluring.  They moved away toward a phenomenon which he just now noticed for the first time, a pair of dark, pillar-like objects standing where the water was about two feet deep, over toward the further shore.  These dark objects moved a little, gently.  Then the strange flies disappeared.  A moment later they dropped again, and went through the same performance.  This was repeated several times, the big trout watching with interest mingled with contempt.  There was no peril for him in such gauds.

Presently the flies disappeared for good.  A few minutes later two others came in their place,-one a tiny, white, moth-like thing, the other a big, bristling bunch of crimson hairs.  The latter stirred, far back in his dull memory, an association of pain and fear, and he backed deeper into his watery den.  It was a red hackle; and in his early days, when he was about eight inches long and frequented the tail of a shallow, foamy rapid, he had had experience of its sharp allurements.  The little moth he ignored, but he kept an eye on the red hackle as it trailed and danced hither and thither across the pool.  Once, near the other side, he saw a misguided fingerling dart from under a stone in the shallow water and seize the gay morsel.  The fingerling rose, with a jerk, from the water, and was no more seen.  It vanished into the unknown air; and the master of the pool quailed as he marked its fate.  After this, the pair of dark, pillar-like objects moved away to the shore, no longer careful, but making a huge, splashing noise.  No more strange flies appeared; and the gold light of full day stole down to the depths of the pool.  Soon, flies which the master well knew, with no fine threads attached to them, began to speck the surface over him, and he fed, in his lazy way, without misgiving.

The big trout had good reason for his dread of the angler’s lure.  His experience with the red hackle had given him the wisdom which had enabled him to live through all the perils of a well-known trout-stream and grow to his present fame and stature.  Behind that red hackle which hooked him in his youth had been a good rod, a crafty head, and a skilful wrist.  His hour had sounded then and there, but for a fortunate flaw in the tackle.  The leader had parted just at the drop, and the terrified trout (he had taken the tail fly) had darted away frantically through the rapids with three feet of fine gut trailing from his jaw.  For several weeks he trailed that hampering thread, and carried that red hackle in the cartilage of his upper jaw; and he had time to get very familiar with them.  He grew thin and slab-sided under the fret of it before he succeeded, by much nosing in gravel and sand, in wearing away the cartilage and rubbing his jaw clear of the encumbrance.  From that day forward he had scrutinized all unfamiliar baits or lures to see if they carried any threadlike attachment.

When any individual of the wild kindreds, furred, feathered, or finned, achieves the distinction of baffling man’s efforts to undo him, his doom may be considered sealed.  There is no beast, bird, or fish so crafty or so powerful but some one man can worst him, and will take the trouble to do it if the game seems to be worth while.  Some lure would doubtless have been found, some scheme devised for the hiding of the line, whereby the big trout’s cunning would have been made foolishness.  Some swimming frog, some terrified, hurrying mouse, or some great night-moth flopping down upon the dim water of a moonless night, would have lulled his suspicions and concealed the inescapable barb; and the master of the pool would have gone to swell the record of an ingenious conqueror.  He would have been stuffed, and mounted, and hung upon the walls of the club-house, down at the mouth of the Clearwater.  But it pleased the secret and inscrutable deities of the woods that the end of the lordly trout should come in another fashion.

It is an unusual thing, an unfortunate and pitiful thing, when death comes to the wild kindred by the long-drawn, tragic way of overripeness.  When the powers begin to fail, the powers which enabled them to conquer, or to flee from, or to outwit their innumerable foes,-then life becomes a miserable thing for them.  But that is not for long.  Fate meets them in the forest trails or the flowing water-paths; and they have grown too dull to see, too heavy to flee, too indifferent to contend.  So they are spared the anguish of slow, uncomprehending decrepitude.

But to the master of Golden Pool Fate came while he was yet master unchallenged, and balked the hopes of many crafty fishermen.  It came in a manner not unworthy of the great trout’s dignity and fame, giving him over to swell no adversary’s triumph, betraying him to no contemptible foe.

One crisp autumn morning, when leaves were falling all over the surface of the pool, and insects were few, and a fresh tang in the water was making him active and hungry, the big trout was swimming hither and thither about his domain instead of lying lazily in his deep lair.  He chanced to be over in the shallows near the grassy shore, when he saw, at the upper end of the pool, a long, dark body slip noiselessly into the water.  It was not unlike the mink in form, but several times larger.  It swam with a swift movement of its forefeet, while its hind legs, stretched out behind with the tail, twisted powerfully, like a big sculling oar.  Its method, indeed, combined the advantages of that of the quadruped and that of the fish.  The trout saw at once that here was a foe to be dreaded, and he lay quite still against a stone, trusting to escape the bright eyes of the stranger.

But the stranger, as it happened, was hunting, and the stranger was an otter.  The big trout was just such quarry as he sought, and his bright eyes, peering restlessly on every side, left no corner of the pool uninvestigated.  They caught sight of the master’s silver and vermilion sides, his softly waving, gay-coloured fins.

With a dart like that of the swiftest of fish, the stranger shot across the pool.  The trout darted madly toward his lair.  The otter was close upon him, missing him by a fin’s breadth.  Frantic now with terror, the trout shot up-stream toward the broken water.  But the otter, driven not only by his forefeet but by that great combined propeller of his hind legs and tail, working like a screw, swam faster.  Just at the edge of the broken water he overtook his prey.  A set of long, white teeth went through the trout’s backbone.  There was one convulsive twist, and the gay-coloured fins lay still, the silver and vermilion body hung limp from the captor’s jaws.

For many days thereafter, Golden Pool lay empty under its dropping crimson and purple leaves, its slow sailing foam flakes.  Then, by twos and threes, small trout strayed in, and found the new region a good place to inhabit.  When, in the following spring, the fishermen came back to the Clearwater, they reported the pool swarming with pan-fish, hardly big enough to make it worth while throwing a fly.  Then word went up and down the Clearwater that the master of the pool was gone, and the glory of the pool, for that generation of fishermen, went with him.