I am carried back to a sweltering midday in August many summers ago. I am fishing
down Cold Brook, a small stream that rises beyond our back line and circles through
the northeast corner of the place, and then for better than two miles runs through a
heavy growth of alders till it meets the Black River at Hawkinsville. I used to fish it every
summer, because no matter how warm the river water might have become, a trout out
of the icy water of Cold Brook was always prime. I also fished it
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