The river reflected whatever it chose of sky and bridge and burning tree$$$ and when the undergraduate had oared his boat through the reflections they closed again$$$ completely$$$ as if they had never been. There one might have sat the clock round lost in thought. Thought --to call it by a prouder name than it deserved-- had let its line down into the stream. It swayed$$$ minute after minute$$$ hither and thither among the reflections and the weeds$$$ letting the water lift it and sink it until --you know the little tug -- the sudden conglomeration of an idea at the end of one's line: and then the cautious hauling of it in$$$ and the careful laying of it out? Alas$$$ laid on the grass how small$$$ how insignificant this thought of mine looked; the sort of fish that a good fisherman puts back into the water so that it may grow fatter and be one day worth cooking and eating.