



Produced by Donald Lainson





LITTLE RIVERS

A BOOK OF ESSAYS IN PROFITABLE IDLENESS


by Henry Van <DW18>


"And suppose he takes nothing, yet he enjoyeth a delightful 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.




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

     II.  Little Rivers

     III.  A Leaf of Spearmint

     IV.  Ampersand

     V.  A Handful of Heather

     VI.  The Ristigouche from a Horse-Yacht

     VII.  Alpenrosen and Goat's-Milk

     VIII.  Au Large

     IX.  Trout-Fishing in the Traun

     X.  At the sign of the Balsam Bough

     XI.  A Song after Sundown




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


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