Little Rivers [5]
your eye. If you are lucky,
you may find, in midsummer, a slender fragrant spike of the purple-
fringed orchis, and you cannot help finding the universal self-
heal. Yellow returns in the drooping flowers of the jewel-weed,
and blue repeats itself in the trembling hare-bells, and scarlet is
glorified in the flaming robe of the cardinal-flower. Later still,
the summer closes in a splendour of bloom, with gentians and asters
and goldenrod.
You never get so close to the birds as when you are wading quietly
down a little river, casting your fly deftly under the branches for
the wary trout, but ever on the lookout for all the various
pleasant things that nature has to bestow upon you. Here you shall
come upon the cat-bird at her morning bath, and hear her sing, in a
clump of pussy-willows, that low, tender, confidential song which
she keeps for the hours of domestic intimacy. The spotted
sandpiper will run along the stones before you, crying, "wet-feet,
wet-feet!" and bowing and teetering in the friendliest manner, as
if to show you the way to the best pools. In the thick branches of
the hemlocks that stretch across the stream, the tiny warblers,
dressed in a hundred colours, chirp and twitter confidingly above
your head; and the Maryland yellow-throat, flitting through the
bushes like a little gleam of sunlight, calls "witchery, witchery,
witchery!" That plaintive, forsaken, persistent note, never
ceasing, even in the noonday silence, comes from the wood-pewee,
drooping upon the bough of some high tree, and complaining, like
Mariana in the moated grange, "weary, weary, weary!"
When the stream runs out into the old clearing, or down through the
pasture, you find other and livelier birds,--the robins, with his
sharp, saucy call and breathless, merry warble; the bluebird, with
his notes of pure gladness, and the oriole, with his wild, flexible
whistle; the chewink, bustling about in the thicket, talking to his
sweetheart in French, "cherie, cherie!" and the song-sparrow,
perched on his favourite limb of a young maple, dose beside the
water, and singing happily, through sunshine and through rain.
This is the true bird of the brook, after all: the winged spirit of
cheerfulness and contentment, the patron saint of little rivers,
the fisherman's friend. He seems to enter into your sport with his
good wishes, and for an hour at a time, while you are trying every
fly in your book, from a black gnat to a white miller, to entice
the crafty old trout at the foot of the meadow-pool, the song-
sparrow, close above you, will be chanting patience and
encouragement. And when at last success crowns your endeavour, and
the parti-coloured prize is glittering in your net, the bird on the
bough breaks out in an ecstasy of congratulation: "catch 'im, catch
'im, catch 'im; oh, what a pretty fellow! sweet!"
There are other birds that seem to have a very different temper.
The blue-jay sits high up in the withered-pine tree, bobbing up and
down, and calling to his mate in a tone of affected sweetness.
"salute-her, salute-her," but when you come in sight he flies away
with a harsh cry of "thief, thief, thief!" The kingfisher,
ruffling his crest in solitary pride on the end of a dead branch,
darts down the stream at your approach, winding up his red angrily
as if he despised you for interrupting his fishing. And the cat-
bird, that sang so charmingly while she thought herself unobserved,
now tries to scare you away by screaming "snake, snake!"
As evening draws near, and the light beneath the trees grows
yellower, and the air is full of filmy insects out for their last
dance, the voice of the little river becomes louder and more
distinct. The true poets have often noticed this apparent increase
in the sound of flowing waters at nightfall. Gray, in one of his
letters, speaks of "hearing the murmur of many waters not audible
in the daytime." Wordsworth
you may find, in midsummer, a slender fragrant spike of the purple-
fringed orchis, and you cannot help finding the universal self-
heal. Yellow returns in the drooping flowers of the jewel-weed,
and blue repeats itself in the trembling hare-bells, and scarlet is
glorified in the flaming robe of the cardinal-flower. Later still,
the summer closes in a splendour of bloom, with gentians and asters
and goldenrod.
You never get so close to the birds as when you are wading quietly
down a little river, casting your fly deftly under the branches for
the wary trout, but ever on the lookout for all the various
pleasant things that nature has to bestow upon you. Here you shall
come upon the cat-bird at her morning bath, and hear her sing, in a
clump of pussy-willows, that low, tender, confidential song which
she keeps for the hours of domestic intimacy. The spotted
sandpiper will run along the stones before you, crying, "wet-feet,
wet-feet!" and bowing and teetering in the friendliest manner, as
if to show you the way to the best pools. In the thick branches of
the hemlocks that stretch across the stream, the tiny warblers,
dressed in a hundred colours, chirp and twitter confidingly above
your head; and the Maryland yellow-throat, flitting through the
bushes like a little gleam of sunlight, calls "witchery, witchery,
witchery!" That plaintive, forsaken, persistent note, never
ceasing, even in the noonday silence, comes from the wood-pewee,
drooping upon the bough of some high tree, and complaining, like
Mariana in the moated grange, "weary, weary, weary!"
When the stream runs out into the old clearing, or down through the
pasture, you find other and livelier birds,--the robins, with his
sharp, saucy call and breathless, merry warble; the bluebird, with
his notes of pure gladness, and the oriole, with his wild, flexible
whistle; the chewink, bustling about in the thicket, talking to his
sweetheart in French, "cherie, cherie!" and the song-sparrow,
perched on his favourite limb of a young maple, dose beside the
water, and singing happily, through sunshine and through rain.
This is the true bird of the brook, after all: the winged spirit of
cheerfulness and contentment, the patron saint of little rivers,
the fisherman's friend. He seems to enter into your sport with his
good wishes, and for an hour at a time, while you are trying every
fly in your book, from a black gnat to a white miller, to entice
the crafty old trout at the foot of the meadow-pool, the song-
sparrow, close above you, will be chanting patience and
encouragement. And when at last success crowns your endeavour, and
the parti-coloured prize is glittering in your net, the bird on the
bough breaks out in an ecstasy of congratulation: "catch 'im, catch
'im, catch 'im; oh, what a pretty fellow! sweet!"
There are other birds that seem to have a very different temper.
The blue-jay sits high up in the withered-pine tree, bobbing up and
down, and calling to his mate in a tone of affected sweetness.
"salute-her, salute-her," but when you come in sight he flies away
with a harsh cry of "thief, thief, thief!" The kingfisher,
ruffling his crest in solitary pride on the end of a dead branch,
darts down the stream at your approach, winding up his red angrily
as if he despised you for interrupting his fishing. And the cat-
bird, that sang so charmingly while she thought herself unobserved,
now tries to scare you away by screaming "snake, snake!"
As evening draws near, and the light beneath the trees grows
yellower, and the air is full of filmy insects out for their last
dance, the voice of the little river becomes louder and more
distinct. The true poets have often noticed this apparent increase
in the sound of flowing waters at nightfall. Gray, in one of his
letters, speaks of "hearing the murmur of many waters not audible
in the daytime." Wordsworth