Little Rivers [39]
"I was ill that summer," said he, "and the doctor had ordered me to
go into the woods, but on no account to go without plenty of fresh
meat, which was essential to my recovery. So we set out into the
wild country north of Georgian Bay, taking a live sheep with us in
order to be sure that the doctor's prescription might be faithfully
followed. It was a young and innocent little beast, curling itself
up at my feet in the canoe, and following me about on shore like a
dog. I gathered grass every day to feed it, and carried it in my
arms over the rough portages. It ate out of my hand and rubbed its
woolly head against my leggings. To my dismay, I found that I was
beginning to love it for its own sake and without any ulterior
motives. The thought of killing and eating it became more and more
painful to me, until at length the fatal fascination was complete,
and my trip became practically an exercise of devotion to that
sheep. I carried it everywhere and ministered fondly to its wants.
Not for the world would I have alluded to mutton in its presence.
And when we returned to civilisation I parted from the creature
with sincere regret and the consciousness that I had humoured my
affections at the expense of my digestion. The sheep did not give
me so much as a look of farewell, but fell to feeding on the grass
beside the farm-house with an air of placid triumph."
After hearing this touching tale, I was glad that no great intimacy
had sprung up between Favonius and the chickens which we carried in
a coop on the forecastle head, for there is no telling what
restrictions his tender-heartedness might have laid upon our
larder. But perhaps a chicken would not have given such an opening
for misplaced affection as a sheep. There is a great difference in
animals in this respect. I certainly never heard of any one
falling in love with a salmon in such a way as to regard it as a
fond companion. And this may be one reason why no sensible person
who has tried fishing has ever been able to see any cruelty in it.
Suppose the fish is not caught by an angler, what is his
alternative fate? He will either perish miserably in the struggles
of the crowded net, or die of old age and starvation like the long,
lean stragglers which are sometimes found in the shallow pools, or
be devoured by a larger fish, or torn to pieces by a seal or an
otter. Compared with any of these miserable deaths, the fate of a
salmon who is hooked in a clear stream and after a glorious fight
receives the happy despatch at the moment when he touches the
shore, is a sort of euthanasia. And, since the fish was made to be
man's food, the angler who brings him to the table of destiny in
the cleanest, quickest, kindest way is, in fact, his benefactor.
There were some days, however, when our benevolent intentions
toward the salmon were frustrated; mornings when they refused to
rise, and evenings when they escaped even the skilful endeavours of
Favonius. In vain did he try every fly in his book, from the
smallest "Silver Doctor" to the largest "Golden Eagle." The "Black
Dose" would not move them. The "Durham Ranger" covered the pool in
vain. On days like this, if a stray fish rose, it was hard to land
him, for he was usually but slightly hooked.
I remember one of these shy creatures which led me a pretty dance
at the mouth of Patapedia. He came to the fly just at dusk, rising
very softly and quietly, as if he did not really care for it but
only wanted to see what it was like. He went down at once into
deep water, and began the most dangerous and exasperating of all
salmon-tactics, moving around in slow circles and shaking his head
from side to side, with sullen pertinacity. This is called
"jigging," and unless it can be stopped, the result is fatal.
I could not stop it. That salmon was determined to jig. He knew
more than I did.
The canoe followed him down