I first met the old angler on his favourite river, the Northwest Miramichi, fly fishing for Atlantic salmon. On parting of the ways with the old angler, I inquired after his place of abode, and happening to be in the neighbourhood a few evenings later, I had the curiosity to seek him out.
I found him and his spouse living in a modest home, a little back from the road, with a small brook, and flowerbed in back stocked with flowers. I found him seated in a chair on the patio smoking his pipe in the soft evening sunshine. He had been angling all day, and gave me a history of his sport marked by close attention to detail, as a Five Star General would talk over his campaign.
How comforting it is to see an occasionally cheerful and contented old age and to behold a fellow like this, after being tempest-tost through early life, safely moored in a snug and quiet harbour in the evening of his days.