



Produced by David Edwards, readbueno and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)









                             LITTLE RIVERS


[Illustration: The noise of the falls makes constant music.]

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             LITTLE RIVERS

                          A BOOK OF ESSAYS IN
                          PROFITABLE IDLENESS


                                   BY

                             HENRY VAN <DW18>


   “And suppose he take nothing, yet he enjoyeth a delightfull
   walk by pleasant Rivers, in sweet Pastures, amongst odoriferous
   Flowers, which gratifie his Senses, and delight his Mind; which
   Contentments induce many (who affect not _Angling_) to choose
   those places of pleasure for their summer Recreation and Health.”
     COL. ROBERT VENABLES, _The Experienc’d Angler_. 1662.


                              ILLUSTRATED


                                NEW YORK
                        CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
                                MDCCCCIV


          _Copyright, 1895, 1903, by Charles Scribner’s Sons_


[Illustration]




                               DEDICATION


               To one who wanders by my side
               As cheerfully as waters glide;
               Whose eyes are brown as woodland streams,
               And very fair and full of dreams;
               Whose heart is like a mountain spring,
               Whose thoughts like merry rivers sing:
               To her—my little daughter Brooke—
               I dedicate this little book.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                CONTENTS


     _I._ _Prelude_                                                 1

    _II._ _Little Rivers_                                           7

   _III._ _A Leaf of Spearmint_                                    37

    _IV._ _Ampersand_                                              67

     _V._ _A Handful of Heather_                                   93

    _VI._ _The Ristigouche from a Horse-Yacht_                    135

   _VII._ _Alpenrosen and Goat’s-Milk_                            165

  _VIII._ _Au Large_                                              215

    _IX._ _Trout-Fishing in the Traun_                            267

     _X._ _At the Sign of the Balsam Bough_                       295

    _XI._ _A Song after Sundown_                                  337

          _Index_                                                 341

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             ILLUSTRATIONS

                    _From drawings by F. V. DuMond_


 _The noise of the falls makes constant music_       Frontispiece iv

                                                         Facing page

 _The farmers’ daughters with bare arms and gowns
 tucked up_                                                       30

 _The bed whereon memory loves to lie and dream_                  40

 _Memory is a capricious and arbitrary creature_                 120

 _Lulling and soothing the mind into a quietude_                 162

 _The same that Titian saw_                                      174

 _The moon slips up into the sky from behind the
 Eastern hills_                                                  292

 _If I should ever become a dryad I should choose
 to be transformed into a white birch_                           304

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                PRELUDE


                        AN ANGLER’S WISH IN TOWN

             _When tulips bloom in Union Square,
             And timid breaths of vernal air
               Are wandering down the dusty town,
             Like children lost in Vanity Fair;_

             _When every long, unlovely row
             Of westward houses stands aglow
               And leads the eyes toward sunset skies,
             Beyond the hills where green trees grow;_

             _Then weary is the street parade,
             And weary books, and weary trade:
               I’m only wishing to go a-fishing;
             For this the month of May was made._

                         ~~~

             _I guess the pussy-willows now
             Are creeping out on every bough
               Along the brook; and robins look
             For early worms behind the plough._

             _The thistle-birds have changed their dun
             For yellow coats to match the sun;
               And in the same array of flame
             The Dandelion Show’s begun._

             _The flocks of young anemones
             Are dancing round the budding trees:
               Who can help wishing to go a-fishing
             In days as full of joy as these?_

                         ~~~

             _I think the meadow-lark’s clear sound
             Leaks upward slowly from the ground,
               While on the wing the bluebirds ring
             Their wedding-bells to woods around:_

             _The flirting chewink calls his dear
             Behind the bush; and very near,
               Where water flows, where green grass grows,
             Song-sparrows gently sing, “Good cheer:”_

             _And, best of all, through twilight’s calm
             The hermit-thrush repeats his psalm:
               How much I’m wishing to go a-fishing
             In days so sweet with music’s balm!_

                         ~~~

             _’Tis not a proud desire of mine;
             I ask for nothing superfine;
               No heavy weight, no salmon great,
             To break the record, or my line:_

             _Only an idle little stream,
             Whose amber waters softly gleam,
               Where I may wade, through woodland shade,
             And cast the fly, and loaf, and dream:_

             _Only a trout or two, to dart
             From foaming pools, and try my art:
               No more I’m wishing—old-fashioned fishing,
             And just a day on Nature’s heart._

1894.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             LITTLE RIVERS


    “_There’s no music like a little river’s. It plays the same tune
    (and that’s the favourite) over and over again, and yet does not
    weary of it like men fiddlers. It takes the mind out of doors;
    and though we should be grateful for good houses, there is,
    after all, no house like God’s out-of-doors. And lastly, sir, it
    quiets a man down like saying his prayers._”——

                              ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON: _Prince Otto_.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             LITTLE RIVERS


A river is the most human and companionable of all inanimate things. It
has a life, a character, a voice of its own, and is as full of good
fellowship as a sugar-maple is of sap. It can talk in various tones,
loud or low, and of many subjects, grave and gay. Under favourable
circumstances it will even make a shift to sing, not in a fashion that
can be reduced to notes and set down in black and white on a sheet of
paper, but in a vague, refreshing manner, and to a wandering air that
goes;

                    “_Over the hills and far away_.”

For real company and friendship, there is nothing outside of the animal
kingdom that is comparable to a river.

I will admit that a very good case can be made out in favour of some
other objects of natural affection. For example, a fair apology has been
offered by those ambitious persons who have fallen in love with the sea.
But, after all, that is a formless and disquieting passion. It lacks
solid comfort and mutual confidence. The sea is too big for loving, and
too uncertain. It will not fit into our thoughts. It has no personality
because it has so many. It is a salt abstraction. You might as well
think of loving a glittering generality like “the American woman.” One
would be more to the purpose.

Mountains are more satisfying because they are more individual. It is
possible to feel a very strong attachment for a certain range whose
outline has grown familiar to our eyes, or a clear peak that has looked
down, day after day, upon our joys and sorrows, moderating our passions
with its calm aspect. We come back from our travels, and the sight of
such a well-known mountain is like meeting an old friend unchanged. But
it is a one-sided affection. The mountain is voiceless and
imperturbable; and its very loftiness and serenity sometimes make us the
more lonely.

Trees seem to come closer to our life. They are often rooted in our
richest feelings, and our sweetest memories, like birds, build nests in
their branches. I remember, the last time that I saw James Russell
Lowell, (only a few weeks before his musical voice was hushed,) he
walked out with me into the quiet garden at Elmwood to say good-bye.
There was a great horse-chestnut tree beside the house, towering above
the gable, and covered with blossoms from base to summit,—a pyramid of
green supporting a thousand smaller pyramids of white. The poet looked
up at it with his gray, pain-furrowed face, and laid his trembling hand
upon the trunk. “I planted the nut,” said he, “from which this tree
grew. And my father was with me and showed me how to plant it.”

Yes, there is a good deal to be said in behalf of tree-worship; and when
I recline with my friend Tityrus beneath the shade of his favourite oak,
I consent in his devotions. But when I invite him with me to share my
orisons, or wander alone to indulge the luxury of grateful, unlaborious
thought, my feet turn not to a tree, but to the bank of a river, for
there the musings of solitude find a friendly accompaniment, and human
intercourse is purified and sweetened by the flowing, murmuring water.
It is by a river that I would choose to make love, and to revive old
friendships, and to play with the children, and to confess my faults,
and to escape from vain, selfish desires, and to cleanse my mind from
all the false and foolish things that mar the joy and peace of living.
Like David’s hart, I pant for the water-brooks. There is wisdom in the
advice of Seneca, who says, “Where a spring rises, or a river flows,
there should we build altars and offer sacrifices.”

The personality of a river is not to be found in its water, nor in its
bed, nor in its shore. Either of these elements, by itself, would be
nothing. Confine the fluid contents of the noblest stream in a walled
channel of stone, and it ceases to be a stream; it becomes what Charles
Lamb calls “a mockery of a river—a liquid artifice—a wretched conduit.”
But take away the water from the most beautiful river-banks, and what is
left? An ugly road with none to travel it; a long, ghastly scar on the
bosom of the earth.

The life of a river, like that of a human being, consists in the union
of soul and body, the water and the banks. They belong together.