"I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, A something to have sent you, Tho' it should serve nae other end HE clock struck two;] I couldn't sleep; the gas burned dimly. So, instead of tumbling and tossing in my bed, repining and execrating, I took from the bookcase a well-worn copy of Burns' poems. Did you ever notice how a favorite book has a habit of being opened (I had almost said opening itself) at just the right page? I leaned back in my good easy chair, with a curling crown of smoke from an old clay pipe, mentally wondering where the seventeen candle-power was to be had from two fully turned-on burners, and where it could possibly conceal itself, when one burner was guaranteed to that extent. Exasperated because my eyelids wouldn't stay buttoned so that I could sleep, and because the gas wouldn't burn so that I could read, I moved my chair to another room where I thought light literature and a student 66 lamp would give surcease of sorrow." They did. That dear old book, worn, thumbed and suffering from lumbago (I am sure it had a pain in its back), opened to Bobby's metrical letter, "To a Young Friend." More smoke and more doze, and then dreams, visions, apparitions and recollections. I seemed to see an editor full of energy and hard luck, with a kindly disposition and a red face, who said again, as before he once had said: "Sculls, let's go fishing to-morrow." It passed through my mind, or at least through the place where my mind ought to locate, that there were few words in the English language which I could not pronounce to suit at least one of the three "W's" that made dictionaries; but there was one little word of one syllable, and only two letters, that I could never manage, except when some one asked for a dubious loan, and the correct spelling is no no. Try it some time, and see how hard it is. The vision seemed to further say: "All right, old man, and let's take Harry with us." Harry was a bright-eyed little fellow. His eyes were like black beads, his face was brimful of swarthiness, intelligence and fun; he was as straight as an arrow-bodily, mentally and morally, and, above all, manly, honest and plucky. To-day he is not far from the voting age; he has all those ailments yet. When one dreams, one wanders, and like our bonnie Scot, I am in doubt as to how this will turn out, as I was as to how the fishing trip would turn out. It will certainly not be a "sang," but the trip came awfully near needing a "sermon." The morning was bright and the mists rose high, And the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky," when the editor and Harry and "Sculls" boarded an early morning train bound. for the capital of New Jersey; and the day was young yet when, in nasal tones, an inhabitant of Trenton said: "Yes, you can have that boat all day for two dollars, but you must pay in advance." We didn't particularly like the boat, the inference or the price, but we came there for a day's outing. So we swallowed the inference, paid the price and took the boat. "Sculls," as his name suggests, sat on the amidship thwart and handled the oars, the editor occupied the sternsheets, and Harry looked out for the lunch basket in the bow. A half-mile row over smooth water on a fine morning, under a bright sun beaming from a purely blue sky, was invigorating, albeit somewhat sudorific. It isn't far from one State to another when they are as close as New Jersey and Pennsylvania are at that place, and in a little while the boat was shoved on the shingly beach of the western shore of the Delaware. Harry fished over the stern for "sunnies," and the editor and "Sculls" waded waist-deep trying to see which could cast a brace of flies the greater distance. The casting was the sport, the catch only an incident, but there were enough incidents to fill the baskets. Perhaps it was not a very high-toned. catch, but there were long-eared sunfish and a few small black bass, and a few pan rockfish and some white perch, beside innumerable chubs, an occasional shiner, and lots of roach. Reading our English correspondence, I am led to believe that many an honest British angler would not complain if in a desultory way he could basket in a few hours three and a half score of edible fish and return to the stream as many more of the soft rayed fellows that he didn't want. I won't describe, or even try to describe, our lunch. I will only allude to our study of tides and to the faithfulness and patience of little Harry. In that boat, under the bright sunshine, he guarded our lunch until we ate it, took care of our fish as fast as we caught them, enjoyed the day with a gravity that later began to worry us. The "Bridge" at Trenton is the head of tide. Above it the water always flows seaward, but wading pants only reach a certain height, and when the "flood" came up, though the water ran down, we found that in places where an hour ago the depth was less than three feet, it was now more than four feet. Our clothes got wet, but we learned something about backwater. Harry slept all the way home on the train, went to bed completely tired out, awoke the next morning with a fearful headache, a parched skin, an aching back and-scarlet fever. He got over it in a few weeks, but we didn't think he would. I hope he will never make another such catch. ANDERING with hook and line along some dashing mountain stream, with an ardor stimulated by bracing upland air, odorous with the wholesome savor of the pines, is a recreation the delights of which will haunt the memories of the true angler for days thereafter and color with gorgeous landscapes his dreams by night. There is doubtless within the breast of every man a latent germ of poetry; and it is during such excursions that he finds himself yielding to the appealing beauties of river, earth and sky. Practical soul though he may be, his most casual glances at the leaves of Nature's open book reveal to him a written romance on every page. The foregoing reflections occurred to the writer one bright June day last. summer, and in view of the sentiment inspired thereby a still, small voice seemed to whisper : "Do thou likewise go a-fishing." No dashing mountain stream, however, was to be reached within a radius of eight hundred miles, but, looming up against the northern sky and distant no more than an hour's drive were the enticing woods bordering the shores of the beautiful Cedar River. I knew that within the quiet depths of the bottom lands overshadowed by those woods lay a chain of lakelets, whose moss growth and fallen and partially submerged trees effectually prevented the operations of vandals with their seines. I was also aware of the fact that the deepest, darkest portions of those lakelets were populous with one particular species of fish-the lowly bullhead, with its ebony back, its marigold belly, and a head which, barring the absence of feathers, certainly bears a strong resemblance to that of a whippoorwill. On the day mentioned I was out in the yard, arranging a trellis for a climbing cypress vine, when (opportunely, indeed) a young nephew from town put in an appearance with a pony and buggy. The sly cub, just released from the restraints of school and ready for the bliss of vacation, knowing my weakness for anything in the way of outdoor diversions, had come as thoroughly equipped for a fishing tour as though the matter had been duly arranged between us long in advance. Blankets, provender for the pony, etc., were stowed within the buggy and a couple of bamboo rods were lashed to the axles. "Well, where do you think you are going?" I remarked, trying hard to make believe that my thoughts were on anything else than a trip to the woods. "Why, I am going a-fishing, of course, and so are you," promptly responded the youthful disciple of Walton. "Don't know about that, younker," said I. "You see that I am busy and this is a fine day for work, but where do you expect to do your fishing?" "Oh, at upper and lower St. Joe, the Eighteen Pike hole and Skinned Forty pond-and what a lark we'll have!" A mighty"Aye, that we will, boy!" was my enthusiastic response; for the bare mention of those old familiar haunts had brought the fishing fever strong upon me. Moreover, the larks were calling blithely across the clover fields and the scent of the last wild crab-apple blooms was in the air. To "loaf one's soul" amid the sylvan charms of that rare June day was a luxury not to be resisted. By 5 o'clock P. M. we were off, amid great rejoicing on the part of Katie and Towser, a pair of fluffy-eared spaniels, both of whom knew from past experience that we were headed for the woods. Along in the evening we reached the iron bridge spanning the Cedar, and from thence dipped down into the wooded bottom lands until we struck Here the first little sheet of water forming the head of the chain of lakelets. we halted, unhitched the pony, and set up our wigwam in the maple shade. The day was fast declining and reflected on the placid surface of the pond were great mounds of evening clouds, which the dying glow of sunset was touching with a glory of lilac and gold. By the time I had completed the task of arranging a piece of netting across the front of our tent, for the purpose of excluding the mosquitoes, whose spiteful hum was already in the air, the schoolboy, who had struck out with a hatchet in search of firewood, returned with an armful of dry limbs. "Now, don't you think that I would make a fine Indian ?" he asked, as he deposited his bundle of fagots on the ground and made ready to strike a match. "My son," I replied, "you require nothing but a breechclout and a pair of moccasins to make of you a perfect redskin; and so let us take the trail to the river for a jug of water." Our camp-fire was soon blazing cheerfully, and by the time our coffee had arrived at the boiling point the shades of night were falling. In the dusky gloom of the woods the voice of the hermit thrush was sanctifying the twilight hour, and a multitude of frogs were starting up their weird musicale. Over on the opposite side of the river a man was milking a cow, accompanying the act by singing a patriotic song. But the singer's melody was frequently interrupted by such expressions as "Stop switching your tail, you infernal brute! Back your foot, you blamed old hyena !" Judging from the unusual lowness of the water, we were half inclined to believe that the pond where we were camped had been frozen to such a depth. |