“_In the tassel-time of spring_,”
and follow its brimming waters through the budding forests, to that
corner which we call the Painter’s Camp. See how the banks are all
enamelled with the pale hepatica, the painted trillium, and the delicate
pink-veined spring beauty. A little later in the year, when the ferns
are uncurling their long fronds, the troops of blue and white violets
will come dancing down to the edge of the stream, and creep venturously
out to the very end of that long, moss-covered log in the water. Before
these have vanished, the yellow crow-foot and the cinquefoil will
appear, followed by the star-grass and the loose-strife and the golden
St. John’s-wort. Then the unseen painter begins to mix the royal colour
on his palette, and the red of the bee-balm catches your eye. If you are
lucky, you may find, in midsummer, a slender fragrant spike of the
purple-fringed orchis, and you cannot help finding the universal
self-heal. Yellow returns in the drooping flowers of the jewel-weed, and
blue repeats itself in the trembling hare-bells, and scarlet is
glorified in the flaming robe of the cardinal-flower. Later still, the
summer closes in a splendour of bloom, with gentians and asters and
goldenrod.
You never get so close to the birds as when you are wading quietly down
a little river, casting your fly deftly under the branches for the wary
trout, but ever on the lookout for all the various pleasant things that
nature has to bestow upon you. Here you shall come upon the cat-bird at
her morning bath, and hear her sing, in a clump of pussy-willows, that
low, tender, confidential song which she keeps for the hours of domestic
intimacy. The spotted sandpiper will run along the stones before you,
crying, “_wet-feet, wet-feet!_” and bowing and teetering in the
friendliest manner, as if to show you the way to the best pools. In the
thick branches of the hemlocks that stretch across the stream, the tiny
warblers, dressed in a hundred colours, chirp and twitter confidingly
above your head; and the Maryland yellow-throat, flitting through the
bushes like a little gleam of sunlight, calls “_witchery, witchery,
witchery!_” That plaintive, forsaken, persistent note, never ceasing,
even in the noonday silence, comes from the wood-pewee, drooping upon
the bough of some high tree, and complaining, like Mariana in the moated
grange, “_weary, weary, wéary!_”
When the stream runs out into the old clearing, or down through the
pasture, you find other and livelier birds,—the robin, with his sharp,
saucy call and breathless, merry warble; the bluebird, with his notes of
pure gladness, and the oriole, with his wild, flexible whistle; the
chewink, bustling about in the thicket, talking to his sweetheart in
French, “_chérie, chérie!_” and the song-sparrow, perched on his
favourite limb of a young maple, close beside the water, and singing
happily, through sunshine and through rain. This is the true bird of the
brook, after all: the winged spirit of cheerfulness and contentment, the
patron saint of little rivers, the fisherman’s friend. He seems to enter
into your sport with his good wishes, and for an hour at a time, while
you are trying every fly in your book, from a black gnat to a white
miller, to entice the crafty old trout at the foot of the meadow-pool,
the song-sparrow, close above you, will be chanting patience and
encouragement. And when at last success crowns your endeavour, and the
parti-coloured prize is glittering in your net, the bird on the bough
breaks out in an ecstasy of congratulation: “_catch ’im, catch ’im,
catch ’im; oh, what a pretty fellow! sweet!_”
There are 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, “_salúte-her,
salúte-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 reel 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._”