"No!" I moan, trying to stand on one foot to rest the other, and ending by standing on neither for the pebble quivers, convulses, and finally rolls over and expires; and only a vigorous leap and a sudden conversion of the fishing-rod into a balancing-pole save me from an ignominious bath. Weary of the world, and lost to shame, I gather all my remaining strength, wind the line about the rod, poise it on high, hurl it out into the deepest and most unobstructed part of the stream, climb up pugnis et calcibus on the back of an old boulder; coax, threaten, cajole, and intimidate my wet boots to come off; dip my handkerchief in the water, and fold it on my head, to keep from being sunstruck; lie down on the rock, pull my hat over my face, and dream, to the purling of the river, the singing of the birds, and the music of the wind in the trees, (whether in the body I cannot tell, or whether out of the body I cannot tell,) of another river, far, far away,--broad, and deep, and seaward rushing,--now in shadow, now in shine,--now lashed by storm, now calm as a baby's sleep,--bearing on its vast bosom a million crafts, whereof I see only one,--a little pinnace, frail yet buoyant,--tossed hither and thither, yet always keeping her prow to the waves,--washed, but not whelmed. So small and slight a thing, will she not be borne down by the merchant-ships, the ocean steamers, the men-of-war, that ride the waves, reckless in their pride of power? How will she escape the sunken rocks, the treacherous quicksands, the ravening whirlpools, the black and dark night?
Lo! yonder, right across her bows, comes one of the Sea-Kings, freighted with death for the frail little bark! Woe! woe! for the lithe little bark! Nay, not death, but life. The Sea-King marks the path of the pinnace. Not death, but life. Signals flash back and forth. She discerns the voice of the Master.
He, too, is steering seaward,--not more bravely, not more truly, but a directer course. He will pilot her past the breakers and the quicksands. He will bring her to the haven where she would be. O brave little bark! Is it Love that watches at the masthead? Is it Wisdom that stands at the helm? Is it Strength that curves the swift keel?--"Hello! how many?"
I start up wildly, and knock my hat off into the water. Jump after it, at the imminent risk of going in myself, catch it by one of the strings, and stare at Halicarnassus.
"Asleep, I fancy?" says Halicarnassus, interrogatively.
"Fancy," I echo, dreamily.
"How many fishes? " persists Halicarnassus.
"Fishes?" says the echo.
"Yes, fishes," repeats Halicarnassus, in a louder tone.
"Yes, it must have been the fishes," murmurs the echo.
"Goodness gracious me!" ejaculates Halicarnassus, with the voice of a giant; "how many fishes have you caught?""Oh! yes," waking up and hastening to appease his wrath;"eight,--chiefly cod."
Indignation chokes his speech. Meanwhile I wake up still further, and, instead of standing before him like a culprit, beard him like an avenging Fury, and upbraid him with his deception and desertion. He attempts to defend himself, but is overpowered. Conscious guilt dyes his face, and remorse gnaws at the roots of his tongue.
"Sinful heart makes feeble hand."
We walk silently towards the woods. We meet a small boy with a tin pail and thirty-six fishes in it. We accost him.
"Are these fishes for sale?" asks Halicarnassus.
"Bet they be!" says small boy, with energy.
Halicarnassus looks meaningly at me. I look meaningly at Halicarnassus, and both look meaningly at our empty basket.
"Won't you tell?" says Halicarnassus.
"No; won't you?" Halicarnassus whistles, the fishes are transferred from pan to basket, and we walk away as "chirp as a cricket," reach the sylvan party, and are speedily surrounded.
"O what beauties! Who caught them? How many are there?""Thirty-six," says Halicarnassus, in a lordly, thoroughbred way. "I caught 'em.""In a tin pan," I exclaim, disgusted with his conceit, and determined to "take him down."A cry of rage from Halicarnassus, a shout of derision from the party.
"And how many did you catch, pray?" demands he.
"Eight,--all cods," I answer, placidly.
Tolerably satisfied with our aquatic experience, we determined to resume the mountains, but in a milder form; before which, however, it became necessary to do a little shopping. An individual--one of the party, whose name I will not divulge, and whose identity you never can conjecture, so it isn't worth while to exhaust yourself with guessing--found one day, while she was in the country, that she had walked a hole through the bottom of her boots. How she discovered this fact is of no moment; but, upon investigating the subject, she ascertained that it could scarcely be said with propriety that there was a hole in her boots, but, to use a term which savors of the street, though I employ it literally, there WASN'T ANYTHINGELSE. Now the fact of itself is not worthy of remark. That the integrity of a pair of boots should yield to the continued solicitations of time, toil, bone, and muscle, is too nearly a matter of everyday occurrence to excite alarm. The "irrepressible conflict" between leather and land has, so far as I know, been suspended but once since "Adam delved and Eve span,"and that was only an amnesty of forty years while the Israelites were wandering in the wilderness. But when you are deep in the heart of the country, scouring woods, climbing mountains, and fording rivers, having with your usual improvidence neglected to furnish yourself with stout boots, then a "horrid chasm," or series of chasms, yawning in the only pair that are of any use to you, presents a spectacle which no reflective mind can contemplate without dismay.
