The fish were running well, and there were excited calls and frantic
pointings, in which at first even the older members of the party joined,
and every few moments a writhing shad flashed in the slanting rays as it
was tossed into the boat. Up and down the long, irregular line of floats
the boats passed and repassed until excitement verged toward satiety, and
the sun, near the horizon, with a cloud canopy of crimson and gold,
warned the merry fishers by proxy that their boats should be turned
homeward. Leonard pulled out what he termed his silver hook, and supplied
not only the Clifford family, but all of Johnnie's guests, with fish so
fresh that they had as yet scarcely realized that they were out of water.
"Now, Amy," said Burt, "keep stroke with me," adding, in a whisper, "no
fear but that we can pull well together."
Her response was, "One always associates a song with rowing. Come, strike
up, and let us keep the boats abreast that all may join."
He, well content, started a familiar boating song, to which the splash of
their oars made musical accompaniment. A passing steamer saluted them,
and a moment later the boats rose gracefully over the swells. The glassy
river flashed back the crimson of the clouds, the eastern slopes of the
mountains donned their royal purple, the intervening shadows of valleys
making the folds of their robes. As they approached the shore the
resonant song of the robins blended with the human voices.
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