But as
he certainly would have failed in such an ambitious endeavor, especially
if he had been caught by a puff of wind, I let him come down upon the
surface of the water, a little beyond the middle of the brook.
Grasshoppers do not sink when they fall into the water, and so I kept
this fellow upon the surface, and gently moved him along, as if, with
all the conceit taken out of him by the result of his ill-considered
leap, he was ignominiously endeavoring to swim to shore. As I did this,
I saw the trout come out from under the bank, move slowly toward the
grasshopper, and stop directly under him. Trembling with anxiety and
eager expectation, I endeavored to make the movements of the insect
still more natural, and, as far as I was able, I threw into him a sudden
perception of his danger, and a frenzied desire to get away. But,
either the trout had had all the grasshoppers he wanted, or he was able,
from long experience, to perceive the difference between a natural
exhibition of emotion and a histrionic imitation of it, for he slowly
turned, and, with a few slight movements of his tail, glided back under
the bank. In vain did the grasshopper continue his frantic efforts to
reach the shore; in vain did he occasionally become exhausted, and sink
a short distance below the surface; in vain did he do everything that he
knew, to show that he appreciated what a juicy and delicious morsel he
was, and how he feared that the trout might yet be tempted to seize him;
the fish did not come out again.
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