Little Rivers [4]
of the point of his rod. For a moment you become a
partner of his tranquil enterprise. You turn around, you crane
your neck to get the last sight of his motionless angle. You do
not know what kind of fish he expects to catch, nor what species of
bait he is using, but at least you pray that he may have a bite
before the train swings around the next curve. And if perchance
your wish is granted, and you see him gravely draw some unknown,
reluctant, shining reward of patience from the water, you feel like
swinging your hat from the window and crying out "Good luck!"
Little rivers seem to have the indefinable quality that belongs to
certain people in the world,--the power of drawing attention
without courting it, the faculty of exciting interest by their very
presence and way of doing things.
The most fascinating part of a city or town is that through which
the water flows. Idlers always choose a bridge for their place of
meditation when they can get it; and, failing that, you will find
them sitting on the edge of a quay or embankment, with their feet
hanging over the water. What a piquant mingling of indolence and
vivacity you can enjoy by the river-side! The best point of view
in Rome, to my taste, is the Ponte San Angelo; and in Florence or
Pisa I never tire of loafing along the Lung' Arno. You do not know
London until you have seen it from the Thames. And you will miss
the charm of Cambridge unless you take a little boat and go
drifting on the placid Cam, beneath the bending trees, along the
backs of the colleges.
But the real way to know a little river is not to glance at it here
or there in the course of a hasty journey, nor to become acquainted
with it after it has been partly civilised and spoiled by too close
contact with the works of man. You must go to its native haunts;
you must see it in youth and freedom; you must accommodate yourself
to its pace, and give yourself to its influence, and follow its
meanderings whithersoever they may lead you.
Now, of this pleasant pastime there are three principal forms. You
may go as a walker, taking the river-side path, or making a way for
yourself through the tangled thickets or across the open meadows.
You may go as a sailor, launching your light canoe on the swift
current and committing yourself for a day, or a week, or a month,
to the delightful uncertainties of a voyage through the forest.
You may go as a wader, stepping into the stream and going down with
it, through rapids and shallows and deeper pools, until you come to
the end of your courage and the daylight. Of these three ways I
know not which is best. But in all of them the essential thing is
that you must be willing and glad to be led; you must take the
little river for your guide, philosopher, and friend.
And what a good guidance it gives you. How cheerfully it lures you
on into the secrets of field and wood, and brings you acquainted
with the birds and the flowers. The stream can show you, better
than any other teacher, how nature works her enchantments with
colour and music.
Go out to the Beaver-kill
"In the tassel-time of spring,"
and follow its brimming waters through the budding forests, to that
corner which we call the Painter's Camp. See how the banks are all
enamelled with the pale hepatica, the painted trillium, and the
delicate pink-veined spring beauty. A little later in the year,
when the ferns are uncurling their long fronds, the troops of blue
and white violets will come dancing down to the edge of the stream,
and creep venturously out to the very end of that long, moss-
covered log in the water. Before these have vanished, the yellow
crow-foot and the cinquefoil will appear, followed by the star-
grass and the loose-strife and the golden St. John's-wort. Then
the unseen painter begins to mix the royal colour on his palette,
and the red of the bee-balm catches
partner of his tranquil enterprise. You turn around, you crane
your neck to get the last sight of his motionless angle. You do
not know what kind of fish he expects to catch, nor what species of
bait he is using, but at least you pray that he may have a bite
before the train swings around the next curve. And if perchance
your wish is granted, and you see him gravely draw some unknown,
reluctant, shining reward of patience from the water, you feel like
swinging your hat from the window and crying out "Good luck!"
Little rivers seem to have the indefinable quality that belongs to
certain people in the world,--the power of drawing attention
without courting it, the faculty of exciting interest by their very
presence and way of doing things.
The most fascinating part of a city or town is that through which
the water flows. Idlers always choose a bridge for their place of
meditation when they can get it; and, failing that, you will find
them sitting on the edge of a quay or embankment, with their feet
hanging over the water. What a piquant mingling of indolence and
vivacity you can enjoy by the river-side! The best point of view
in Rome, to my taste, is the Ponte San Angelo; and in Florence or
Pisa I never tire of loafing along the Lung' Arno. You do not know
London until you have seen it from the Thames. And you will miss
the charm of Cambridge unless you take a little boat and go
drifting on the placid Cam, beneath the bending trees, along the
backs of the colleges.
But the real way to know a little river is not to glance at it here
or there in the course of a hasty journey, nor to become acquainted
with it after it has been partly civilised and spoiled by too close
contact with the works of man. You must go to its native haunts;
you must see it in youth and freedom; you must accommodate yourself
to its pace, and give yourself to its influence, and follow its
meanderings whithersoever they may lead you.
Now, of this pleasant pastime there are three principal forms. You
may go as a walker, taking the river-side path, or making a way for
yourself through the tangled thickets or across the open meadows.
You may go as a sailor, launching your light canoe on the swift
current and committing yourself for a day, or a week, or a month,
to the delightful uncertainties of a voyage through the forest.
You may go as a wader, stepping into the stream and going down with
it, through rapids and shallows and deeper pools, until you come to
the end of your courage and the daylight. Of these three ways I
know not which is best. But in all of them the essential thing is
that you must be willing and glad to be led; you must take the
little river for your guide, philosopher, and friend.
And what a good guidance it gives you. How cheerfully it lures you
on into the secrets of field and wood, and brings you acquainted
with the birds and the flowers. The stream can show you, better
than any other teacher, how nature works her enchantments with
colour and music.
Go out to the Beaver-kill
"In the tassel-time of spring,"
and follow its brimming waters through the budding forests, to that
corner which we call the Painter's Camp. See how the banks are all
enamelled with the pale hepatica, the painted trillium, and the
delicate pink-veined spring beauty. A little later in the year,
when the ferns are uncurling their long fronds, the troops of blue
and white violets will come dancing down to the edge of the stream,
and creep venturously out to the very end of that long, moss-
covered log in the water. Before these have vanished, the yellow
crow-foot and the cinquefoil will appear, followed by the star-
grass and the loose-strife and the golden St. John's-wort. Then
the unseen painter begins to mix the royal colour on his palette,
and the red of the bee-balm catches