Little Rivers [8]
one bigger than me, running this
outfit. He can 'tend to it well enough, while I smoke my pipe
after the round-up."
There is such a thing as taking ourselves and the world too
seriously, or at any rate too anxiously. Half of the secular
unrest and dismal, profane sadness of modern society comes from the
vain idea that every man is bound to be a critic of life, and to
let no day pass without finding some fault with the general order
of things, or projecting some plan for its improvement. And the
other half comes from the greedy notion that a man's life does
consist, after all, in the abundance of the things that he
possesses, and that it is somehow or other more respectable and
pious to be always at work making a larger living, than it is to
lie on your back in the green pastures and beside the still waters,
and thank God that you are alive.
Come, then, my gentle reader, (for by this time you have discovered
that this chapter is only a preface in disguise,--a declaration of
principles or the want of them, an apology or a defence, as you
choose to take it,) and if we are agreed, let us walk together; but
if not, let us part here with out ill-will.
You shall not be deceived in this book. It is nothing but a
handful of rustic variations on the old tune of "Rest and be
thankful," a record of unconventional travel, a pilgrim's scrip
with a few bits of blue-sky philosophy in it. There is, so far as
I know, very little useful information and absolutely no criticism
of the universe to be found in this volume. So if you are what
Izaak Walton calls "a severe, sour-complexioned man," you would
better carry it back to the bookseller, and get your money again,
if he will give it to you, and go your way rejoicing after your own
melancholy fashion.
But if you care for plain pleasures, and informal company, and
friendly observations on men and things, (and a few true fish-
stories,) then perhaps you may find something here not unworthy
your perusal. And so I wish that your winter fire may burn clear
and bright while you read these pages; and that the summer days may
be fair, and the fish may rise merrily to your fly, whenever you
follow one of these little rivers.
1895.
A LEAF OF SPEARMINT
RECOLLECTIONS OF A BOY AND A ROD.
"It puzzles me now, that I remember all these young impressions so,
because I took no heed of them at the time whatever; and yet they
come upon me bright, when nothing else is evident in the gray fog
of experience."--B. D. BLACKMORE: Lorna Doone.
Of all the faculties of the human mind, memory is the one that is
most easily "led by the nose." There is a secret power in the
sense of smell which draws the mind backward into the pleasant land
of old times.
If you could paint a picture of Memory, in the symbolical manner of
Quarles's Emblems, it should represent a man travelling the highway
with a dusty pack upon his shoulders, and stooping to draw in a
long, sweet breath from the small, deep-red, golden-hearted flowers
of an old-fashioned rose-tree straggling through the fence of a
neglected garden. Or perhaps, for a choice of emblems, you would
better take a yet more homely and familiar scent: the cool
fragrance of lilacs drifting through the June morning from the old
bush that stands between the kitchen door and the well; the warm
layer of pungent, aromatic air that floats over the tansy-bed in a
still July noon; the drowsy dew of odour that falls from the big
balm-of-Gilead tree by the roadside as you are driving homeward
through the twilight of August; or, best of all, the clean, spicy,
unexpected, unmistakable smell of a bed of spearmint--that is the
bed whereon Memory loves to lie and dream!
Why not choose mint as the symbol of remembrance? It is the true
spice-tree of our Northern clime, the myrrh and frankincense of the
land of lingering snow. When its perfume
outfit. He can 'tend to it well enough, while I smoke my pipe
after the round-up."
There is such a thing as taking ourselves and the world too
seriously, or at any rate too anxiously. Half of the secular
unrest and dismal, profane sadness of modern society comes from the
vain idea that every man is bound to be a critic of life, and to
let no day pass without finding some fault with the general order
of things, or projecting some plan for its improvement. And the
other half comes from the greedy notion that a man's life does
consist, after all, in the abundance of the things that he
possesses, and that it is somehow or other more respectable and
pious to be always at work making a larger living, than it is to
lie on your back in the green pastures and beside the still waters,
and thank God that you are alive.
Come, then, my gentle reader, (for by this time you have discovered
that this chapter is only a preface in disguise,--a declaration of
principles or the want of them, an apology or a defence, as you
choose to take it,) and if we are agreed, let us walk together; but
if not, let us part here with out ill-will.
You shall not be deceived in this book. It is nothing but a
handful of rustic variations on the old tune of "Rest and be
thankful," a record of unconventional travel, a pilgrim's scrip
with a few bits of blue-sky philosophy in it. There is, so far as
I know, very little useful information and absolutely no criticism
of the universe to be found in this volume. So if you are what
Izaak Walton calls "a severe, sour-complexioned man," you would
better carry it back to the bookseller, and get your money again,
if he will give it to you, and go your way rejoicing after your own
melancholy fashion.
But if you care for plain pleasures, and informal company, and
friendly observations on men and things, (and a few true fish-
stories,) then perhaps you may find something here not unworthy
your perusal. And so I wish that your winter fire may burn clear
and bright while you read these pages; and that the summer days may
be fair, and the fish may rise merrily to your fly, whenever you
follow one of these little rivers.
1895.
A LEAF OF SPEARMINT
RECOLLECTIONS OF A BOY AND A ROD.
"It puzzles me now, that I remember all these young impressions so,
because I took no heed of them at the time whatever; and yet they
come upon me bright, when nothing else is evident in the gray fog
of experience."--B. D. BLACKMORE: Lorna Doone.
Of all the faculties of the human mind, memory is the one that is
most easily "led by the nose." There is a secret power in the
sense of smell which draws the mind backward into the pleasant land
of old times.
If you could paint a picture of Memory, in the symbolical manner of
Quarles's Emblems, it should represent a man travelling the highway
with a dusty pack upon his shoulders, and stooping to draw in a
long, sweet breath from the small, deep-red, golden-hearted flowers
of an old-fashioned rose-tree straggling through the fence of a
neglected garden. Or perhaps, for a choice of emblems, you would
better take a yet more homely and familiar scent: the cool
fragrance of lilacs drifting through the June morning from the old
bush that stands between the kitchen door and the well; the warm
layer of pungent, aromatic air that floats over the tansy-bed in a
still July noon; the drowsy dew of odour that falls from the big
balm-of-Gilead tree by the roadside as you are driving homeward
through the twilight of August; or, best of all, the clean, spicy,
unexpected, unmistakable smell of a bed of spearmint--that is the
bed whereon Memory loves to lie and dream!
Why not choose mint as the symbol of remembrance? It is the true
spice-tree of our Northern clime, the myrrh and frankincense of the
land of lingering snow. When its perfume