Read Online A Clearing in the forest by Gloria Whelan - Free Book Online
Authors: Gloria Whelan
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looked like exotic flowers.
âWeâre drilling through salt right now,â Wilson told Frances. âMy wrists and ankles are raw from the brine theyâre bringing up.â This tangible evidence of ancient seas had been a revelation to him. Suddenly he remembered something, and with a pleased look dug a small fossil from a pocket. It looked like a pair of wings turned to stone by an evil spell.
âMicrospirifer,â Frances told him. âYou donât usually find them around here. I donât think I have one myself.â
He held the fossil out to her. âDo you want it for your collection?â
âNo.â She looked at him hard. âI thought you were going to do some fishing.â She began piling up books. It was too much to become attached to someone new. She wouldnât have it. Hers was a time of life when you ought to begin to pull away from people. And until Wilson had come along, she had done just that. In India people her age slipped off into the countryside to live a solitary life. Those left behind had the wisdom and delicacy to let them go.
Wilson, not understanding why Frances seemed angry all of a sudden, was grateful to tug on Dr. Crawfordâs waders and head for the stream. But before he could climb into the river, she was coming toward him with a cottage-cheese carton full of worms.
âI found them in the compost pile,â she said proudly.
Wilson couldnât help laughing at her. With her small tan face cocked to one side and her short white hair standing up like feathers, she looked as if she could have pulled the worms out of the ground herself.
He knew she meant the worms as a peace offering. She wanted to let him know she didnât mind his fishing for the trout with bait instead of artificial flies. When he had first started fishing there, she had told him how Dr. Crawford couldnât stand bait fishermen in the river; âplunkersâ he called men who fished with worms. Anytime he saw one wading the stream, he would put on an old khaki army shirt and a tin badge from the dime store, get into his waders, and stomp into the river carrying a folding rule and a pad of paper. Heâd give the man a big smile and introduce himself as someone from the conservation department who was assigned to measure the depth of the river.
Keeping a few feet in front of the infuriated fisherman, heâd plunge his yardstick here and there, giving special attention to the holes where there might be a big fish and generally muddying up the river and scaring away the trout for miles around.
Eventually the conservation department had designated a stretch of the stream for âartificial flies only.â But evidently the men in the department had never fully appreciated the doctorâs impersonation of them; when the signs had gone up, the Crawfords had discovered the âflies onlyâ stretch had ended at the beginning of their property.
Wilson left the worms on the bank and eased himself into the water. The current tugged at his legs as he made his way slowly over the slippery rocks. He picked out a fly cleverly fashioned from feathers and horsehair into a small green grasshopper. He dressed the fly with grease, as Frances had taught him to do, so it would float in a natural way on top of the water. Finally he stripped off some line from his reel and snapped the line upstream. He knew Frances was watching approvingly from the bank.
The fly bobbed along a riffle and disappeared in a little whirlpool. He retrieved it, false cast a few times to dry off the fly, and sent it down the same waterslide. Even in midsummer he could feel the icy water through his waders.
He rounded a bend in the river and was out of sight of the cabin. The bank on either side was lined with tag alders and willow, and behind the shrubs were tall pines. Wilson felt he was wading through a green tunnel. A mink swam by to have a look at him, his sleek brown body making
âWeâre drilling through salt right now,â Wilson told Frances. âMy wrists and ankles are raw from the brine theyâre bringing up.â This tangible evidence of ancient seas had been a revelation to him. Suddenly he remembered something, and with a pleased look dug a small fossil from a pocket. It looked like a pair of wings turned to stone by an evil spell.
âMicrospirifer,â Frances told him. âYou donât usually find them around here. I donât think I have one myself.â
He held the fossil out to her. âDo you want it for your collection?â
âNo.â She looked at him hard. âI thought you were going to do some fishing.â She began piling up books. It was too much to become attached to someone new. She wouldnât have it. Hers was a time of life when you ought to begin to pull away from people. And until Wilson had come along, she had done just that. In India people her age slipped off into the countryside to live a solitary life. Those left behind had the wisdom and delicacy to let them go.
Wilson, not understanding why Frances seemed angry all of a sudden, was grateful to tug on Dr. Crawfordâs waders and head for the stream. But before he could climb into the river, she was coming toward him with a cottage-cheese carton full of worms.
âI found them in the compost pile,â she said proudly.
Wilson couldnât help laughing at her. With her small tan face cocked to one side and her short white hair standing up like feathers, she looked as if she could have pulled the worms out of the ground herself.
He knew she meant the worms as a peace offering. She wanted to let him know she didnât mind his fishing for the trout with bait instead of artificial flies. When he had first started fishing there, she had told him how Dr. Crawford couldnât stand bait fishermen in the river; âplunkersâ he called men who fished with worms. Anytime he saw one wading the stream, he would put on an old khaki army shirt and a tin badge from the dime store, get into his waders, and stomp into the river carrying a folding rule and a pad of paper. Heâd give the man a big smile and introduce himself as someone from the conservation department who was assigned to measure the depth of the river.
Keeping a few feet in front of the infuriated fisherman, heâd plunge his yardstick here and there, giving special attention to the holes where there might be a big fish and generally muddying up the river and scaring away the trout for miles around.
Eventually the conservation department had designated a stretch of the stream for âartificial flies only.â But evidently the men in the department had never fully appreciated the doctorâs impersonation of them; when the signs had gone up, the Crawfords had discovered the âflies onlyâ stretch had ended at the beginning of their property.
Wilson left the worms on the bank and eased himself into the water. The current tugged at his legs as he made his way slowly over the slippery rocks. He picked out a fly cleverly fashioned from feathers and horsehair into a small green grasshopper. He dressed the fly with grease, as Frances had taught him to do, so it would float in a natural way on top of the water. Finally he stripped off some line from his reel and snapped the line upstream. He knew Frances was watching approvingly from the bank.
The fly bobbed along a riffle and disappeared in a little whirlpool. He retrieved it, false cast a few times to dry off the fly, and sent it down the same waterslide. Even in midsummer he could feel the icy water through his waders.
He rounded a bend in the river and was out of sight of the cabin. The bank on either side was lined with tag alders and willow, and behind the shrubs were tall pines. Wilson felt he was wading through a green tunnel. A mink swam by to have a look at him, his sleek brown body making
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