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It was The forenoon of a hazy, breathless day, and Dan Phillips was trouting up one of The back creeks of The Carleton pond. It was somewhat cooler up The creek than out on The main body of water, for The tall birches and willows, crowding down to The brim, threw cool, green shadows across it and shut out The scorching glare, while a stray breeze now and Then rippled down The wooded slopes, rustling The beech leaves with an airy, pleasant sound. Out in The pond The glassy water creamed and shimmered in The hot sun, unrippled by The faintest breath of air. Across The soft, pearly tints of The horizon blurred The smoke of The big factory chimneys that were owned by Mr. Walters, to whom The pond and adjacent property also belonged.

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