FOREST AND STREAM 
Aug. 31, 1912 
2fi2 
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that time I considered I would be stretched full 
length upon my balsam bough bed with the 
gentle murmurs of the woods to waft me into 
pleasant unconsciousness in the fragrant land of 
sleep. Racked by fancies I walked the floor. I 
was disgusted with myself; there was nothing 
to do. My friends with the trivial inconse¬ 
quences of speech and their lack luster views 
of life palled upon me. The antidote for my 
harassed mind was peace and quietude; some¬ 
thing to renew my fancy and revitalize the blood 
that had grown dull from care. 
Soon I would get away. Soon. I turned the 
word around in my mind and my heart leaped 
to the very pronunciation of it. Soon the days 
would pass and I would wave my hand in fare¬ 
well, with the pack sack on my shoulder and 
the dog at my. heels. I would pass under those 
trees and lift my face for the benediction of the 
golden sun, warm in the azure heavens. I would 
listen again to the caroling of the birds and hear 
the subtle murmuring of the countless leaves in 
that soothing harmony we all know so well. So 
I fain would leave my misgivings; a book of 
Keats, and again I trace my way through the 
wilds with this poet beside me to point out the 
exquisiteness of nature's fond appeal. How like 
the effects of a long sweet sleep to awake to 
the delicate fancy of Keats’, that harbinger of 
life, the god of song. To him let my fancies 
trend when the camp-fire glows warm in the 
heart of the woods, when the long day has 
worn apace. Let him be the guide to those lands 
that lie beyond. Like heavy laden caravans the 
days trail across the deserts of monotony, with 
the goal of youth and freedom far away on the 
horizon, but steadily they creep on, it comes to 
an end. and I find myself ready for the event¬ 
ful trip into the wild places, there to commune 
with nature in her manifold presentiments, just 
as man was meant to commune were he close 
to the heart of the lady of moods. Wake then, 
O heart, and rise to the very skies in acclaim 
for the glad day has come. 
I took down the slender Bristol fly-rod, nine 
feet and a half of beauty, the comrade of many 
a sojourn into the wilds. T jointed it together 
once more that T might feel its pliancy, its resi¬ 
liency, and that hidden merit that is the tell¬ 
tale sign of a good rod’s worth. Into the suit 
case I tucked the clothes, a few shirts and odds 
and ends, and took out the tackle box and went 
over its contents. Then I hunted out the steel 
casting rod, for I knew where also there were 
bass in the blessed Wisconsin country I was 
about to hie me. And so I was on the train 
and speeding away to the land of my heart’s 
desire. And as I sat there looking out upon 
the country from the car window I felt a sense 
of great anticipation, the calmness of ease, for 
there was no demon Work hanging over me 
pointing with a cold finger to that which must 
be done. All that was gone and I could again 
think of the birds, the wild scenes of nature, of 
Danny and the old homestead. These were the 
pictures that come to my vision and they lasted. 
Danny was on the platform waiting for me 
when the train pulled in. Tt was ten at night 
and I saw him standing there, smoking his favo¬ 
rite pipe, and watching those who stepped off. 
We were shaking hands a moment later and he 
was piloting me to the buggy. Same old Danny; 
old in the sense of friendship, but in reality on 
the smooth and sunny side of life. 
“There are trout down there in the creek,” 
he told me as the horses put distance between 
the depot and the country. "And I have routed 
out quite a number as I told you in the letter. 
In the morning we will pack the little tent and 
hie us away for a week close to nature.” 
How good it was to drink in the pure, sweet 
country breezes as they billowed over the seem¬ 
ingly endless fields. There is some magic in 
their searching appeal that cannot but uncover 
the finer grain in the body of one. There were 
the comingled scents of swelling loam, and the 
freshening grass, now strong with the vitality 
of youth and the leaves that on the trees were 
spreading in the warm rays of the maturing sun. 
Back again, and I had visions of coming days, 
a continual round of peacefulness, of reverie and 
the strengthening of limb and mind. 
In the realm of piscatorial art, Danny is 
supreme, and it is notable that we hold about 
the same feelings in regard to things in general, 
be it rods, lines, baits, flies and the hundred and 
one little things dear to the heart of the angler.. 
We sat up until the midnight hour talking over 
things, for our enthusiasm had mounted to a 
degree that made it impossible to get away with¬ 
out knowing what had occurred to each other 
in the intervening months. But finally we got 
to bed and slept on the thought of getting an 
early start in the morning. 
Morning found us up, getting ready. And 
after a time spent at packing things away, we 
bid farewell at the house and set out across the 
fields. The beginning of our trip was under way. 
The weather was clear and fine and a thousand 
birds were sending their anthems into the still 
of morning, a scene of seeing and hearing that 
will always remain with me. Still were the fresh 
breezes billowing across the fields and the trees 
were rustling with a faint stir of life that seemed 
in perfect harmony with the universal quietude 
that dominated our surroundings. Above in the 
skies there was just evidence enough of clouds 
to break any monotony apprehended. They were 
fleecy white, set on a field of azure of the purest 
conceivable. Together we admired the world of 
nature, wordlessly finding a place for our feel¬ 
ings, for speech is paltry, and then Danny and 
I are hopelessly poetic. 
“You will notice as we stand here,” said 
Danny in a moment of exquisite rapture, as we 
were contemplating a scene that lay before us, 
"how hazy and yet how pure the sun rays are. 
That witchery of glamor that touches the edges 
of those leaves, and that seeming unfurling of 
an unseen beauty as the sun mounts higher in 
the heavens. Notice how the scene seems wrap¬ 
ped up in sleep; how still it is; nothing intrud¬ 
ing upon the solemnity of the morning hour. 
And there, where the shadows are by the brook, 
see how very deep they present themselves, with 
here and there the hint of a fragile sunbeam that 
has stolen in between the leaves.” 
It was indeed a glorious vista and we stood 
long and gave it our attention. The morning 
was now well on its upward climb to the me- 
ridianol hour, and we were making our way 
along to a stream, which, hid in among the wil¬ 
lows, contained many a trout waiting there in 
the gloomy nooks for something in the shape of 
an insect to fall on the surface that they might 
rise for it. What anticipation and delicate mys¬ 
ticism there is surrounding a native trout brook, 
or any water for that matter. As you approach. 
the heart seems to stand still, and the breath 
comes fast. Will he take your fly? Ah! that is 
the question, and it is only answered when that 
cleverly constructed bit of artificiality flicks the 
mirror-like surface to arouse the little denizen 
of the brook to rise and strike it, or it may 
come to naught. A Coaxer trout fly! The iden¬ 
tical thing, and we individually chose one of 
different coloration and prepared for work. 
What better imitation than this, and how well 
it floated; the personification of a dry-fly and 
fit for a sonnet in portrayal of its virtues. 
Danny was stealthily creeping along ahead. 
I had spotted out a pool that was deep and 
placid, with just movement enough to the flow 
to take the fly along. Blow gracefully it made 
its way toward its destination. See, it passes 
that outjutting log and suddenly the water breaks 
and the first trout is on my hook and fighting 
for his liberty. Once more playing the little fel¬ 
lows and what gladness throbs through the pulse. 
He comes to net a clean, beautiful fish with the 
wealth of nature in his tender length. And so 
we kept on, with the morning sun rising high 
and higher, while the prevailing breezes rustled 
and whispered in the leaves, telling some tale 
that is as old as the world itself. Rounding the 
bend I found Danny sitting on a rock with his 
pipe in his mouth, his rod across his lap, the 
picture of contentment and reverie. At my ap¬ 
proach he motioned to the camera. 
“It contains a little of nature and its beauty. 
Right in there by that big tree, not twenty feet 
from you, there is a brown thrasher’s nest with 
four eggs in it. Go in carefully and you may 
find the mother bird there. I have her home 
pictured on a film and have two trout in the 
creel as an example of my exquisite luck.” 
True enough, there was the old bird as I 
parted the intervening branches and stole a 
glance at what was before me. She hopped from 
limb to limb, uttering little cries, half in fright 
and questioning, I thought. Beautiful harbinger 
of the day! The poetess of the woodland, with 
a soul as pure as the light that glimmered down 
from the sun. I left her there and returned 
to my companion who was again immersed in 
dreams, gazing out across the glade with eyes 
that seemed far, far away. The spell of the 
day was in me, too, and there we sat long, 
dreaming and puffing at our pipes while the habi¬ 
tants of the wild passed and repassed us, in¬ 
quisitive and beautiful in their child-like inno¬ 
cence. What a motive for man to gain fruit of 
endeavor from! What restful beauty! What 
sweet magnificence, such as man would seem in¬ 
capable of uttering or putting to word. I lay 
on my back outstretched, full length, gazing be¬ 
tween my fingers up into the blue of the sky. 
There was stillness all around. I heard, how¬ 
ever, in the hollow of the wood the chirping of 
a bird, but save for that and the slight stir of 
the wind through the leaves of the trees now 
and then, there was nothing to break in on that 
wonderful solemnity. 
Our progress along the stream was gradual, 
for we would let nothing of that beautiful coun¬ 
try pass by with a perfunctory glance. Rather 
we searched the deeps of nature in that com¬ 
munion which spells love in its highest form. 
We caught trout here and there, and we soon 
had enough to last us. Noon day came and we 
made our stop. And after the pleasant meal we 
(Continued on page 281.) 
