266 



RECREATION. 



As for me, I go to the river because I 

 love it. I love every bend and curve of its 

 sinuous course and the bubble and flash 

 of its eddying water. I love the syca- 

 mores, poplars, willows and maples that 

 fringe its banks and the beautiful wild 

 flowers and mosses that grow along its 

 logs and fences. I love the song birds 

 that flash in streaks of blue and gold and 

 scarlet and brown across its waters, and 

 nest in its willows, filling the air with 

 heavenly melody. I love to catch glimpses 

 of gaunt blue herons, fishing among the 

 rushes, and try to creep with a camera on 

 solemn brown bitterns, eying muddy pools 

 anxiously for signs of luscious fat worms. 

 I love the bark of the squirrels, the rattle 

 of the empty nut shells they fling away, 

 the whistle of Bob White, and the stilt- 

 legged killdeer's call. I love the ripple 

 of the water, the music of the wind among 

 the willows, and the sweet breath of 

 clover, wild flowers, and damp growing 

 things. 



Going to the river means going home to 

 me, going to the real home God has pre- 

 pared equally for all his children. No 

 prince with his millions can have more 

 fully than I the green grass of my river. 

 No queen owns a larger share of heaven's 

 blue and the soft summer wind than I; and 

 the millionaires may keep their gold. Is 

 not all the gold of God's sunshine mine? 

 The home I love best is carpeted with vel- 

 vet grass and fern; frescoed with fleecy 

 clouds on vaulted dome of blue, and fur- 

 nished with all the wonders of flower, tree, 

 moss and vine. "Tongues in trees, ser- 

 mons in stones, books in the running 

 brooks, and good in every thing." 



Just to be alive and go to the river is 

 enough; that I own rare books, a camera, 



a rod and reel beside, is my great fortune. 

 So we go to the river at every available 

 opportunity. 



On this particular day we went because 

 the Deacon had a holiday. We did not 

 expect many fish. Molly-Cotton stretched 

 herself on a log under a big maple and 

 fished for minnows. The Deacon worked 

 2 hours before he was quite fixed. The 

 "fixing" of the Deacon is a process. He 

 baits a strong hook on a stout line at- 

 tached to a cane pole and sets it for suck- 

 ers to nibble on. He fixes another, some- 

 what similar, and sets it on the bottom for 

 catfish. Then he wires an enormous hook 

 to a young clothes line, baits it with a wad 

 of worms and meat, and throws it in the 

 center of the deepest pool, tying the line 

 to a stake on the bank. This is for a 

 patriarchal turtle he has tried 3 years to 

 catch; possibly in 3 more he may succeed. 



The last process of "fixing" is a dainty 

 lancewood rod, reel, silk line and live 

 minnow. I am aware this looks as if the 

 Deacon might be qualifying for a fish hog, 

 but it is not the case. He stands on the 

 end of the boat and casts, up, down, and 

 across, whizz, whizz, 60, 70 or 100 feet and 

 gets possibly 6 good bass in a season. 

 With all his arrangements and Molly-Cot- 

 ton and me fishing beside, we never took 

 12 fish in one day in our lives. 



I had exposed 2 plates I had hopes for, 

 and was sitting on a grassy spot in the 

 shade of a thorn tree, when the line on my 

 stout cane pole straightened out and my 

 rod doubled up under one of the strongest 

 bites I ever had. I started down the river, 

 followed by the Deacon and Molly-Cotton, 

 and for 10 minutes my fish cut pigeon 

 wings, up, down, sidewise and across. I 

 could not get him near the bank and there 



AMATEUR PHOTO BY GENE STRATTON PORTER. 



MOLLY-COTTON FISHED FOR MINNOWS. 



