Little Rivers [40]
the pool. He jigged away past all
three of the inlets of the Patapedia, and at last, in the still,
deep water below, after we had laboured with him for half an hour,
and brought him near enough to see that he was immense, he calmly
opened his mouth and the fly came back to me void. That was a sad
evening, in which all the consolations of philosophy were needed.
Sunday was a very peaceful day in our camp. In the Dominion of
Canada, the question "to fish or not to fish" on the first day of
the week is not left to the frailty of the individual conscience.
The law on the subject is quite explicit, and says that between six
o'clock on Saturday evening and six o'clock on Monday morning all
nets shall be taken up and no one shall wet a line. The
Ristigouche Salmon Club has its guardians stationed all along the
river, and they are quite as inflexible in seeing that their
employers keep this law as the famous sentinel was in refusing to
let Napoleon pass without the countersign. But I do not think that
these keen sportsmen regard it as a hardship; they are quite
willing that the fish should have "an off day" in every week, and
only grumble because some of the net-owners down at the mouth of
the river have brought political influence to bear in their favour
and obtained exemption from the rule. For our part, we were
nothing loath to hang up our rods, and make the day different from
other days.
In the morning we had a service in the cabin of the boat, gathering
a little congregation of guardians and boatmen, and people from a
solitary farm-house by the river. They came in pirogues--long,
narrow boats hollowed from the trunk of a tree; the black-eyed,
brown-faced girls sitting back to back in the middle of the boat,
and the men standing up bending to their poles. It seemed a
picturesque way of travelling, although none too safe.
In the afternoon we sat on deck and looked at the water. What a
charm there is in watching a swift stream! The eye never wearies
of following its curls and eddies, the shadow of the waves dancing
over the stones, the strange, crinkling lines of sunlight in the
shallows. There is a sort of fascination in it, lulling and
soothing the mind into a quietude which is even pleasanter than
sleep, and making it almost possible to do that of which we so
often speak, but which we never quite accomplish--"think about
nothing." Out on the edge of the pool, we could see five or six
huge salmon, moving slowly from side to side, or lying motionless
like gray shadows. There was nothing to break the silence except
the thin clear whistle of the white-throated sparrow far back in
the woods. This is almost the only bird-song that one hears on the
river, unless you count the metallic "chr-r-r-r" of the kingfisher
as a song.
Every now and then one of the salmon in the pool would lazily roll
out of water, or spring high into the air and fall back with a
heavy splash. What is it that makes salmon leap? Is it pain or
pleasure? Do they do it to escape the attack of another fish, or
to shake off a parasite that clings to them, or to practise jumping
so that they can ascend the falls when they reach them, or simply
and solely out of exuberant gladness and joy of living? Any one of
these reasons would be enough to account for it on week-days. On
Sunday I am quite sure they do it for the trial of the fisherman's
faith.
But how should I tell all the little incidents which made that lazy
voyage so delightful? Favonius was the ideal host, for on water,
as well as on land, he knows how to provide for the liberty as well
as for the wants of his guests. He understands also the fine art
of conversation, which consists of silence as well as speech. And
when it comes to angling, Izaak Walton himself could not have been
a more profitable teacher by precept or example. Indeed, it is a
curious thought, and one full of sadness
three of the inlets of the Patapedia, and at last, in the still,
deep water below, after we had laboured with him for half an hour,
and brought him near enough to see that he was immense, he calmly
opened his mouth and the fly came back to me void. That was a sad
evening, in which all the consolations of philosophy were needed.
Sunday was a very peaceful day in our camp. In the Dominion of
Canada, the question "to fish or not to fish" on the first day of
the week is not left to the frailty of the individual conscience.
The law on the subject is quite explicit, and says that between six
o'clock on Saturday evening and six o'clock on Monday morning all
nets shall be taken up and no one shall wet a line. The
Ristigouche Salmon Club has its guardians stationed all along the
river, and they are quite as inflexible in seeing that their
employers keep this law as the famous sentinel was in refusing to
let Napoleon pass without the countersign. But I do not think that
these keen sportsmen regard it as a hardship; they are quite
willing that the fish should have "an off day" in every week, and
only grumble because some of the net-owners down at the mouth of
the river have brought political influence to bear in their favour
and obtained exemption from the rule. For our part, we were
nothing loath to hang up our rods, and make the day different from
other days.
In the morning we had a service in the cabin of the boat, gathering
a little congregation of guardians and boatmen, and people from a
solitary farm-house by the river. They came in pirogues--long,
narrow boats hollowed from the trunk of a tree; the black-eyed,
brown-faced girls sitting back to back in the middle of the boat,
and the men standing up bending to their poles. It seemed a
picturesque way of travelling, although none too safe.
In the afternoon we sat on deck and looked at the water. What a
charm there is in watching a swift stream! The eye never wearies
of following its curls and eddies, the shadow of the waves dancing
over the stones, the strange, crinkling lines of sunlight in the
shallows. There is a sort of fascination in it, lulling and
soothing the mind into a quietude which is even pleasanter than
sleep, and making it almost possible to do that of which we so
often speak, but which we never quite accomplish--"think about
nothing." Out on the edge of the pool, we could see five or six
huge salmon, moving slowly from side to side, or lying motionless
like gray shadows. There was nothing to break the silence except
the thin clear whistle of the white-throated sparrow far back in
the woods. This is almost the only bird-song that one hears on the
river, unless you count the metallic "chr-r-r-r" of the kingfisher
as a song.
Every now and then one of the salmon in the pool would lazily roll
out of water, or spring high into the air and fall back with a
heavy splash. What is it that makes salmon leap? Is it pain or
pleasure? Do they do it to escape the attack of another fish, or
to shake off a parasite that clings to them, or to practise jumping
so that they can ascend the falls when they reach them, or simply
and solely out of exuberant gladness and joy of living? Any one of
these reasons would be enough to account for it on week-days. On
Sunday I am quite sure they do it for the trial of the fisherman's
faith.
But how should I tell all the little incidents which made that lazy
voyage so delightful? Favonius was the ideal host, for on water,
as well as on land, he knows how to provide for the liberty as well
as for the wants of his guests. He understands also the fine art
of conversation, which consists of silence as well as speech. And
when it comes to angling, Izaak Walton himself could not have been
a more profitable teacher by precept or example. Indeed, it is a
curious thought, and one full of sadness