272 THE OREGON SPORTSMAN 
with no other companions than rod and reel, singing birds and summer 
zephyrs. As Dr. Boteler said of strawberries, ‘‘ Doubtless God could 
have made a better berry, but doubtless God never did,’’ and so, if I 
may be judge, God did never make a more calm, quiet, innocent recrea- 
tion than angling. 
But it would be an inexcusable exaggeration to assume that this 
strong liking grows upon those who only engage in the grosser depart- 
ments of the art. The greatest enthusiast soon wearies of bait and troll 
as lures for pike and pickerel, or sunfish and perch. As coarse food 
palls on the palate, so the love of angling soon dies out unless it reaches 
up to the higher plane of trout and salmon, lured by the tiny fly, kept 
in check by the gossamer-like leader, and conquered by the skillful 
manipulation of the slender rod, which curves to the pressure as grace- 
fully as the tall pine to the blast of the tempest. It is only im this 
higher department of the art that the angler finds the witchery of his 
vocation and the octogenarian the ecstacy which gives to him ever- 
increasing pleasure and delight. If the fascinating art had no other 
commendation than this, that the pleasure which it affords never abates 
but grows in attractiveness and intensity with every repetition, it 
would be worthy of cultivation, and should commend itself to all who 
deem it possible for old age to have some more tangible joy than that 
afforded by the barren recollections of the distant past. 
Nor is it alone during the all too brief period in which he is actually 
engaged in whipping the rivers and bagging the spoil that the angler 
derives delight from his art. Weeks before it is practicable to visit 
‘the woods,’’ or proper to even attempt to ‘‘entice the finny tribe from 
their aqueous element,’’ the chronic angler finds exquisite deleetation 
in the needful preparation for his sojourn. 
Where lakes and rills and rivulets do flow; 
The lofty woods, the forests wide and long, 
Adorned with leaves, and branches fresh and green, 
in whose cool bowers the birds with many a song 
Do welcome with their choir the Summer’s Queen; 
The meadows fair, where Flora’s gifts among 
Are intermixed, with verdant grass between; 
The silver-secaled fish that swiftly swim 
Within the sweet brook’s crystal watery stream. 
The recollection of what has been and the anticipation of what is 
to be; the quiet discourse of men with like tastes, of past successes and 
of anticipated triumphs; reminiscences of river and lake and forest and 
campfire, make up a series of prospective and retrospective pleasures 
akin to those experienced by the old soldier fondling his trusty musket 
and ‘‘fighting his battles o’er again.’’ And unpacking one’s kit is like 
meeting old friends. Every marred fly, every frayed leader, every 
well-worn tip and line and reel revives pleasant memories of river, pvoi 
or campfire, or ‘‘rise,’’? or ‘‘strike,’’ or struggle, only less real than 
the reality itself, for ‘‘only itself can be its parallel.’’ 
No marvel that apostles and prophets, emperors and kings, philoso- 
phers and bishops, soldiers and statesmen, scholars and poets, and the 
quiet, gentle and contemplative of all ages and of all professions, have 
found delight in angling, or that they have been made the better and 
the wiser, and the purer and the happier, by its practice. It brings its 
devotee into close and intimate communion with nature. It takes him 
into flowering meads and shady woods; by the side of murmuring brooks, 
silvery cascades and crystal pools. 
