414 



RECREATION. 



"I've got* him!" 



"Papa, what's the matter ? Are you 

 dreaming-?" 



No, my child ; it is not that. Your 

 sire has the angler's passion ; that is 

 all. 



Not every one who says, "I go 

 a-fishing," gets into the real spirit of 

 it. To own a fine fly-hook and 

 the best rod ever made is by no 

 means a passport to the angler's king- 

 dom of heaven. In some the inner 

 light has failed because it has not 

 been cultivated. They have grown 

 callous and hard. Whatever those 

 unfortunates may be fit for who have 

 no music in their souls they will 

 never become true anglers. I once 

 went out with a man who lay down to 

 sleep on a haycock within sight of the 

 glorious foothills of the White moun- 

 tains, close to an amber colored stream 

 where the trout were numerous and 

 hungry. That act spoke his limita- 

 tions. He might at least have reveled 

 in the poetry of the landscape and the 

 sight and sound of the thrushes and 

 vireos which God had sent for our 

 delectation. 



It is generally supposed that the 

 angler feels the first thrill of insatia- 

 ble desire when the ice is melting and 

 the loosened drops begin their sea- 

 ward flow. Then, to be sure, the 

 greatest dullard must know it is time 

 to get his tackle ready. But unless a 

 man has the fever when the frosts are 

 strongest he is only at the beginning 

 of his course as an angler of passion. 

 The tying of one's own flies is a splen- 

 did whet to the appetite, and that is 

 done when the nights are long and 

 the fireside comfortable. How much 

 keen pleasure comes from the hand- 

 ling of material ! In those sacred mo- 

 ments when the vice is fixed and the 

 various implements are brought, with 

 silks and feathers, hooks and snell all 

 at hand and in sight, we live again 

 the days that are dead and make de- 

 mands, that are always met, upon the 

 joys of the days to be. This crow's 

 wing and that brown hackle or bit of 



feather from a mallard's breast, each 

 has its own story. 



Those who are dominated by any 

 passion brook no interference with 

 their plans and count no task hard. 

 Once let the spark of suggestion touch 

 the stubble of desire and up it blazes 

 like the corn fields of the Philistines 

 when Samson's foxes tore through 

 them with their firebrands. The very 

 impediments furnish fuel for the 

 flames. 



Every angler has his favorite 

 stream, at the thought of which his 

 pulses quicken and at whose sight and 

 sound he is possessed by the most pas- 

 sionate frenzy of delight. It may be 

 some narrow mountain brook that be- 

 gins its modest course among the 

 high, bare rocks and makes up in tur- 

 bulence what it lacks in size. Such 

 streams are the home of hardy trout, 

 unsurpassed in loveliness and tooth- 

 some flavor. Or perchance my angler's 

 heart may be buried in the placid 

 waters of some slow-going meadow 

 brook, where grasses grow above it 

 and wild flowers nod to see their 

 beauty mirrored in its face. If not to 

 such scenes I know the spot that holds 

 him with the strong grip of enthusi- 

 astic love. It is where 



" The murm'ring pines and the hemlocks " 



stand as faithful sentinels by night and 

 day on the shores of a deep, sweet- 

 watered pond. The browsing deer at 

 the edges and the solitary loon on the 

 surface are his only companions ; and 

 the way back to civilization is over the 

 trail first followed by the Indians in 

 their journeyings to and fro. But in 

 any case the quality of his love is the 

 same and it grows most by being con- 

 centrated. The angler may have a 

 tender feeling toward all inhabited 

 waters, as Burns had for all Scotch 

 lassies ; but it was concentrated pas- 

 sion that caused him to sing to Mary 

 in heaven. 



Every true man respects all true 

 women, but he loves the wife of his 

 bosom. Flowing waters especially 

 need to be wooed and won. How shy 



