Little Rivers | Page 8

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 repeats the same
thought almost in the same words:
"A soft and lulling sound is heard Of streams inaudible by day."
And Tennyson, in the valley of Cauteretz, tells of the river
"Deepening his voice with deepening of the night."
It is in this mystical hour that you will hear the most celestial and
entrancing of all bird-notes, the songs of the thrushes,--the hermit, and
the wood-thrush, and the veery. Sometimes, but not often, you will see
the singers. I remember once, at the close of a beautiful day's fishing on
the Swiftwater, I came out, just after sunset, into a little open space in
an elbow of the stream. It was still early spring, and the leaves were
tiny. On the top of a small sumac, not thirty feet away from me, sat a
veery. I could see the pointed spots upon his breast, the swelling of his
white throat, and the sparkle of his eyes, as he poured his whole heart
into a long liquid chant, the clear notes rising and falling, echoing and
interlacing in endless curves of sound,
"Orb within orb, intricate, wonderful."
Other bird-songs can be translated into words, but not this. There is no
interpretation. It is music,--as Sidney Lanier defines it,--
"Love in search of a word."
But it is not only to the real life of birds and flowers that the little rivers
introduce you. They lead you often into familiarity with human nature
in undress, rejoicing in the liberty of old clothes, or of none at all.
People do not mince along the banks of streams in patent-leather shoes
or crepitating silks. Corduroy and home-spun and flannel are the stuffs
that suit this region; and the frequenters of these paths go their natural
gaits, in calf-skin or rubber boots, or bare-footed. The girdle of
conventionality is laid aside, and the skirts rise with the spirits.

A stream that flows through a country of upland farms will show you
many a pretty bit of genre painting. Here is the laundry-pool at the foot
of the kitchen garden, and the tubs are set upon a few planks close to
the water, and the farmer's daughters, with bare arms and gowns tucked
up, are wringing out the clothes. Do you remember what happened to
Ralph Peden in The Lilac Sunbonnet when he came on a scene like this?
He tumbled at once into love with Winsome Charteris,--and far over his
head.
And what a pleasant thing it is to see a little country lad riding one of
the plough-horses to water, thumping his naked heels against the ribs of
his stolid steed, and pulling hard on the halter as if it were the bridle of
Bucephalus! Or perhaps it is a riotous company of boys that have come
down to the old swimming-hole, and are now splashing and gambolling
through the water like a drove of white seals very much sun-burned.
You had hoped to catch a goodly trout in that hole, but what of that?
The sight of a harmless hour of mirth is better than a fish, any day.
Possibly you will overtake another fisherman on the stream. It may be
one of those fabulous countrymen, with long cedar poles and bed- cord
lines, who are commonly reported to catch such enormous strings of
fish, but who rarely, so far as my observation goes, do anything more
than fill their pockets with fingerlings. The trained angler, who uses the
finest tackle, and drops his fly on the water as accurately as Henry
James places a word in a story, is the man who takes the most and the
largest fish in the long run. Perhaps the fisherman ahead of