474' • FOREST AND STREAM 
backs. How fragrant the forest odors—how 
soothing the babbling of the brook! 
Tell me, you, who all during the open season 
can enjoy, from beginning to end, every day of 
it—tell me, do you get quite the enjoyment that 
you did when your trips afield were limited to a 
day? You enjoy it—true! But is it quite as 
poignant as it used to be when you worked so 
hard for just one day? I think not! Confess 
now, as we sit by our open fireplaces to-night 
while the logs crackle and the red flames, like 
oak leaves, dance and flicker up the chimney, that 
it lacks the keen appreciation of former years. 
No! it isn’t that you have grown older—nothing 
of the sort—it is because it comes more easily now. 
You have your guides—the cooking is attended 
to—the wood-chopping is done for you—you may 
not even have had to carry your rod; but, as the 
blue wreaths of smoke envelop you as you sit 
there placidly puffing your cigar, or mayhap your 
pipe, doesn’t there come to you, away off in the 
distance at first, but growing nearer as your cigar 
grows shorter and your memory longer and 
clearer, the vision of a little nook, shaded with 
overhanging willows and sycamores? See how 
the waters of the brook dance over the shining 
pebbles, and its wavy grasses rise and twist and 
twirl with the current—the masses of light and 
shade seem alive as they constantly shift. 
See that kingfisher—did you hear him chatter 
as he hurried by? “Why such haste?” you say. 
Ere your voice has ceased to sound you see a 
willow branch switch upward, and from its tip 
dangles a piece of line and a trout. Look a trifle 
closer—you cannot see anything? Puff up, your 
cigar is almost out. “Puff”—there—why, of 
course—can it be possible?—that little barefooted 
country lad, with a head of hair like a bunch of 
dried grass, is yourself! It is true—that lad is 
yourself in embryo. See him “snake” the trout 
out. He knows every hole and stone, bank and 
log in the brook, and draws heavy tribute there¬ 
from. 
How small the stream looks to you now—you, 
who have fished the Restigouche and like magnifi¬ 
cent streams; but in fishing them, have you had 
more keen delight than the little codger you just 
beheld? 
The brook still hurries away to the sea, as it 
did when you were a boy—as it did when your 
ancestors were boys—the same spring-fed brook 
—the same mountain brook. It looks small, in¬ 
deed, as you look back at it now. But it taught 
many lessons that have worked subtly in your 
life, teaching you how to appreciate not better 
things, but larger ones. 
Have you not met old men whose genial dis¬ 
positions almost make you believe they absorbed 
all the sunlight from their brooks? I never see 
a genial old man that I do not think the brooks 
of his boyhood had something to do with the 
moulding of his character. And who can truth- 
fuly gainsay it? I truly believe that many of 
them do not understand it themselves. The little 
brooks still run on, with the same gladness and 
sunshine and hosts of wild flowers, but we remain 
in the city striving for wealth, occasionally 
catching the call of the brooks over the city 
streets and chimneys. It is calling—always call¬ 
ing—calling to you, calling to me, its old play¬ 
mates. Many a day of it we have made together. 
We have enjoyed it—yes—but how about the boy? 
Take him out and let him enjoy it, too. Teach 
him the love of Nature—let him hear the call of 
the brooks and the birds—teach him the names of 
the birds and flowers—engender the love of the 
fields and woods and mountains within his heart, 
so that he may have the same pleasure in looking 
backward that we find in retrospect to-day. 
Give the boy a show and let him grow up feel¬ 
ing that he has not been cheated out of some¬ 
thing in life which he cannot describe—his heri¬ 
tage ! 
And, by the way, why not give the boy in your¬ 
self another show? Yes, he’s there; you needn’t 
think that because you measure some five or six 
feet you are a man. I don’t care if your hair is 
gray—the little boy is inside of you just the 
same. That same little country lad clamoring to 
crop out—let him “crop.” It will do you both 
good. Don’t hold the little chap down to the 
grind for the almighty dollar so assiduously. He 
hears the brook calling many a time while your 
pen adds up column after column of figures and 
your purse grows corpulent. Some day take the 
little chap that I see in your eyes as you switch 
your rod, up in your den, at the opening of the 
trout season, out on the brooks—exchange the 
pen for a pocket axe or a jack-knife—build your¬ 
selves'a friendship fire such as Henry Van Dyke 
speaks of in his “Little Rivers,”—and don't for¬ 
get to extinguish it when you leave. Show him 
that little bunch of fringed gentian standing over 
the carpet of pine tree moss—down in the glade 
let him inhale the perfume of that bank of arbu¬ 
tus. You needn’t look at him if he starts when 
that muskrat plumps overboard—the chances are 
he’ll look at you and wonder why so natural a 
•thing should startle you. The truth of the matter 
is, you have already begun to forget nature, even 
though you didn’t intend to. Never mind, you’ll 
both get along better as you become better ac¬ 
quainted and before you have those trout broiled 
for dinner. What’s that sticking out of that 
small pocket? Salt? Well, by hokey, if it isn’t— 
just the thing! We can broil a couple right 
here—a birch stick in head and tail, a bed of 
glowing embers and a hungry man and boy, top¬ 
ping off with coffee and the man with a cigar. 
For the boy hasn’t learned to smoke yet, although 
he is exactly your age. 
Let Nature's kindly light so shine 
Upon your life and ways— 
And help you, daily, to divine 
The trail of better days; 
And keep the moral good in man 
Transcendent, as was Nature’s plan. 
ONE MORE FISH STORY. 
Here is a new “fish story” that is going the 
rounds: 
To make sure the youngster was not disobey¬ 
ing the bass fishing law the game warden took 
his string of fish out of the water and found only 
catfish, perch and suckers on the line. A few feet 
further down the stream he found a large black 
bass wiggling on a string weighted down with a 
stone and asked the boy what he was doing with 
the fish. 
“Well, you see,” answered the boy, “he’s been 
taking my bait all morning, and so I just tied him 
up there until I got through fishing.” 
It is Calling—Always Calling—Calling to You. 
