The So-called Human Race Part 13

V.--FINE FEATHERS.

There is a certain school of anglers that go about the business of fishing with much gravity. You should hear the Great Neal discourse of their profundities. Lacking that privilege, you may conceive a pair of these anglers met beside a river, seeking to discover which of the many insects flying about is preferred by the trout on that particular morning. There is disagreement, or there is lack of evidence. It is decided to catch a trout, eviscerate him, and obtain internal and indisputable evidence. For the cast any fly is used, and when the trout is opened it is learned that he has been feeding on a small black insect; whereupon our anglers tie a number of flies to resemble that insect, and proceed solemnly with their day's work. Though the trout scorn their fine feathers, they will not fish with any fly.

With the subtleties of this school I have no sympathy. They might be of profit on waters that are much fished, but they are wasted on the wilderness, where the trout will rise to almost any lure. When I make an expedition I take along two or three dozen flies, for the mere pleasure of looking at them, and rearranging them in the fly-book; but I wet less than half a dozen. On the Delectable River we cast only when trout are needed for the frypan. You are to picture canoes drawn up on a sandbar, and a ribbon of black smoke curling from a strip of birch bark that marks the beginning of a fire. It is time to get the fish. So I set up my rod and walk upstream perhaps a hundred yards, casting on the current where it cuts under the farther bank. Almost every cast evokes a trout; this one takes the tail fly, a Silver Doctor, the next one strikes the Bucktail dropper; any other flies would serve. The largest fish is taken on my return, from under the stern of one of the canoes.

Where trout are so plentiful and so unwary, there is no call for the preparatory work of the evisceration school of anglers.

My reason for using a dropper fly is not to offer the trout two counterfeit insects differing in shape or color; as commonly attached to the leader, the dropper swims with the tail fly. "Sir," said the Great Neal, in the manner of Samuel Johnson, "when the dropper is properly attached, as I attach it, two aspects of the lure are presented to the fish, the one fly moving through the water, the other dancing an inch or so above. This, Sir, is how I tie it."

And sitting at the Oracle's feet, ye learn "all ye need to know."

VI.--THALa.s.sA!

Trails there are that one remembers from their beginnings to their ends, because of the variety and charm of the pictures offered along the way.

Monotony marks the trails that fade from memory; they represent hours of marching through timber of a second growth, or skirting hills where dead sticks stand forlorn and only the fireweed blooms. Of rememberable roads the last stage of our journey to the Great Water is the one I have now in mind. It is the longest carry, two miles or less, sharply down hill, though less precipitate than the river, which, after many days of idling, now flings itself impatiently toward the sh.o.r.e. We linger where it makes its first great leap. Many have come thus far from the south, and, looking on the shallow pool beyond, have decided that there is no profit in going farther; or they have explored a bit and, encountering _bogwah_, have reached the same conclusion. Who would conjecture that past the shallows lie leagues of deep and winding waters, reserved by nature as a reward for the adventurer who counts a glimpse of the unknown worth all the labor of the day? We who have come from the headwaters know that nature has as wisely screened the river's source.

Where the lake ends is a forbidding tangle of water shrubs and timber; the outlet is an archipelago of sharp rocks, and the stream, if found, is seen to be small and turbulent.

The last carry keeps the Delectable River in view; foam, seen through the firs, marks its plunging flight. And then we draw away from it for a s.p.a.ce, and cross an open thickly strewn with great stones, a sunlit place, where berries and a few flowers are privileged to exist. A little time is spent here in picking up the trail, which has spilled itself among the stones; then, the narrow footway regained, we drop as quickly as the river, and presently our feet touch sand. We break through a fringe of evergreens and cry out as the Greeks cried out when they saw the sea. The lake at last!--

_The river, done with wandering, The silver, silent sh.o.r.e._

A LINE-O'-TYPE OR TWO

"_Lord, what fools these mortals be._"

ARMS AND THE COLYUM.

I sing of arms and heroes, not because I'm thrilled by what these heroes do or die for: The Colyum's readers think they make its laws, And I make out to give them what they cry for.

And since they cry for stuff about the war, Since war at this safe distance not to _them_'s h.e.l.l, I have to write of things that I abhor, And far, strange battlegrounds like Ypres and Przemysl.

War is an almost perfect rime for bore; And, 'spite my readers (who have cursed and blessed me), Some day I'll throw the war junk on the floor, And write of things that really interest me:

Of books in running brooks, and wilding wings, Of music, stardust, children, cas.e.m.e.nts giving On seas unvext by wars, and other things That help to make our brief life worth the living.

I sing of arms and heroes, just because All else is shadowed by that topic fearful; But I've a mind to chuck it [Loud applause], And tune my dollar harp to themes more cheerful.

Listen, Laura, Mary, Jessica, Dorothy, and other sweet singers! Gadder Roy, who is toiling over the pitcher-and-bowl circuit, wishes that some poet would do a lyric on that salvation of the traveler, Ham and Eggs.

He doubts that it can be done by anybody who has not, time out of mind, scanned a greasy menu in a greasier hashery, and finally made it h.

and e.

WE FEARED WE HAD STARTED SOMETHING.

Sir: Should G. E. Thorpe's typewritten communications carrying the suggestion GET/FAT precede or follow our communications which carry EAT/ME?

E. A. T.

THEY'RE OFF!

Sir: What position in your letter file, respecting the suggestions of GET/FAT, will my typewritten letters land, as they end thusly: "HEL/NO"?

H. E. L.

SWEETLY INEFFECTIVE.

Sir: Perhaps the reason my collection letters have so little effect lately is that these cheerless communications always conclude with JAM/JAR.

J. A. M.

BUT APROPOS.

Sir: All this GET/FAT excitement reminds me of the case, so old it's probably new again, of one Simmons, who wrote letters for one Green, and signed them "Green, per Simmons."

W. S.

SORRY. THERE WERE SEVERAL IN LINE AHEAD OF YOU.

Sir: I have been waiting, very patiently, for some one to inform you that the sincerity of A. L. Lewis, manager of the country elevator department of the Quaker Oats Company, is sometimes made questionable by the initials, ALL/GAS, appearing on his business correspondence.

O. K.

THE SECOND POST.

[Received by a clothing company.]

Dear Sirs: I received the suits you sent me but in blue not gray as I said. Don't try to send me your refuss, I am sending them back. I ain't color blind or a jack a.s.s, you shouldn't treat me as that. I understand your wife is making coats for ladies now. Have her make one (dark) for my wife who is a stout 42 with a fer neck. Now send me what I asked for, the old woman is perticular. The trousers you sent wouldn't slip over my head. Ever faithful, etc.

For Academy Ghost, or Familiar Spirit, P. D. Q. nominates Miss Bessie Spectre of Boston.