SPRING MADNESS. 



TEN SLEEP. 



Sauntering down the street on a business 

 errand one warm spring day, my attention 

 was arrested by a crowd of men gazing 

 intently at a window display. I, too, turned 

 to look. There they were in fascinating 

 opulence : reels and rods, gaudy flies and 

 lures, landing nets and bait pails, wading 

 boots and canvas duds, drinking cups and 

 pocket flasks, and all things dear to the 

 heart of fisher folk. In the twinkling of 

 an eye the mischief was done and the old 

 ferment was working in my blood — the 

 fret for the woods and the free open life 

 under canvas, for brawling streams, the 

 mountains and God's out-of-doors. 



I had thought "that's all shoved behind 

 me, long ago and fur away," but as surely 

 as the shad-bush blooms after the snow, 

 so surely does the old yearning return like 

 a giant refreshed. Let a man once hit the 

 trail and follow it until he brings down a 

 buck; let him do battle with a trout or 

 salmon; let him thrill at the startling whirr 

 of a rising grouse; let him once scent the 

 odors of camp and sleep with the starlight 

 on his face, and old Mother Nature claims 

 him forever. 



That is something the gentler sex can not 

 understand, or will not. Woman readily 

 comprehends how each recurring Easter 

 brings an intense longing for new head- 

 gear and silken gowns ; it is part of her 

 being. She wants pretty things, and she 

 gets them. But when the strengthening 

 sun begins to dissipate the lingering snow, 

 when a snowdrop pushes its rash little 

 head above ground, and the call of robins 

 is heard throughout the land, there is just 

 a wee touch of scorn and intolerance in 

 her bearing toward frail mankind. Why? 

 Well, you see, he is puttering in his 

 den again, and the house is redolent of 

 varnish, for rods have to be overhauled 

 and varnished, or maybe fitted with new 

 ferrules. The good wife can not abide her 

 helpmate's silly chuckling over the splicing 

 of a broken joint, but then she had not the 

 good fortune to witness the battle royal 

 which resulted in the fracture. She re- 

 sents his devotion to time tables ; and the 

 everlasting correspondence with some mys- 

 terious "Jim" or "Jack" up country irri- 

 tates her. The unearthing of, to her, dirty 

 old canvas coats and corduroys is a dis- 

 gusting spectacle. But, after all, there is 

 more of jealousy and envy than anger or 

 spite in her attitude at this time when the 

 spring madness seizes her liege lord. If 

 some one could explain (and she would 

 listen) that it is exactly like house-clean- 



ing, which every normal, healthy woman 

 revels in next to a wedding, there would be 

 a better domestic understanding. Man 

 would complacently accept the volcanic up- 

 heavals of house-cleaning under the new 

 conditions, and, as a reward, he would be 

 allowed to fish in peace. 



It is asserted that the process of waste 

 and repair in the human economy makes 

 man over into a new being every 7 years. 

 This is an error; man is remade annually, 

 every spring. When the world is greening 

 and bursting into flower, some subtle al- 

 chemy is transforming winter-stagnated 

 man into a new being. There are 

 those who scoff at the miracle as a relic 

 of barbarism, as savagery handed down 

 from remote ancestors given to preying on 

 all living things. By way of refutation, 

 hand the scoffer gentle Izaak Walton's 

 "Complete Angler," which breathes such a 

 tender love of out-of-doors, such appreci- 

 ation of the goodness of a quiet life spent 

 in the contemplation of the glories of the 

 Creation, and so quaintly champions the 

 pastime of fishing that it holds a place in 

 literature rivaled by no other book. The 

 simple faith of the author sets to shame the 

 imputation of barbarism. Izaak Walton a 

 savage ! 



No; there is something better and higher 

 than barbarism in the lover of honest wood- 

 craft. As a rule, those who subscribe to 

 sentiments hostile to true sport and sports- 

 men are persons reared under hot-house 

 conditions, living artificial lives; the or- 

 chids and parasites of social degeneracy. 

 The man who takes to rod and gun and 

 loves the smell of smoldering camp fires 

 has more good red blood coursing his ar- 

 teries, and is more human and humane 

 than his decriers. 



Many men go into the mountains with- 

 out the desire to kill in their hearts. A 

 friend has evolved the theory that it is 

 an excellent thing to go camping every 

 year, because the soil absorbs the impurities 

 of the body while sleeping in close contact 

 with it. This, however, seems fanciful ; 

 the same effect would not be gained by 

 sleeping in a back yard. Rather is the ben- 

 efit derived from a complete change of air 

 and scene; by the escape from the artificial- 

 ities of society. The shrewd physician pre- 

 scribes a return to elemental living for his 

 world-worn patients, and he can always be 

 sure of good results from these journeys to 

 Nature. The balsamic ozone of primeval 

 forests is a tonic without equal ; the nat- 

 ural exhaustion due to following a brook, 



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