Mrs. Lyndsay—comely, rosy, in the vigor of young middle-life—was the
first to welcome the sun, as it came over the hills beyond the river. In
the camps was stir of breakfast, and silent, inverted cones of smoke
from the fires. Soon Rose, on the edge of the cliff, cried “Good
morning!” and the mother saw the strong, well-built girl come toward
her, and had pride in her vigor and sweetness. They kissed, and the
mother went in, and Rose back to her maiden meditations.
She sat down on a camp-stool, and felt that for the first time she had
leisure to think. She and her aunt had been met by her father when their
steamer came, and amidst incessant questions they had been hurried off
into the wilds of New Brunswick. A year away had made for her new
possibilities of observation, and now, with surprised interest, she
found herself in the center of a household which, assuredly, even to the
more experienced, would have seemed peculiar. It was, in fact, more
peculiar than odd. There was no eccentricity, but much positive
character. This Rose Lyndsay saw as she had never seen it before. The
growth of definitely marked natures in the boys struck her, the fresh
air of a kind of family freedom rare elsewhere; the audacity of the
lads’ comments, and their easy relations with the father, were things
which now she saw anew with more thoughtfully observant eyes.
It were well to say, however, that it was a republic with sudden
probabilities of dictatorship, and that a stranger coming within its
circle rarely beheld much of the outspoken fashions and droll appearance
of equality which, at times, seemed to disregard the deference
ordinarily yielded to parental opinion. In fact, there was a comfortable
sense of comradeship all around, which had its values, and with it an
affection so strong that the wounds of all intellectual differences, and
of the somewhat rare physical contests of the boys, were easily healed
by its constancy, and by the father’s power to make each see in all the
rest their specifically valuable traits. Some things which in other
households are looked upon as serious were in this little
noticed,—while, as to certain lapses, punishment was apt to be severe
enough.
By and by Ned came out and sat down by Rose. He was the most silent of
them all.
“Well,” said Rose, as he kissed her, “isn’t it beautiful, Ned? Look at
the low meadows down below the elms, and the cliffs opposite, and the
wild water! Don’t you love it?”
“I think I—I like it,” he replied. “How black the water looks—how wilful
it looks—that was what I wanted to say. I _think_ I like it, Rose.
Sometimes I don’t like things other people like,—I mean grown-up people.
I suppose that’s very stupid.”
“No,—oh, no!” She was struck with the oddness of some aspects of his
mind. “Was that what troubled you yesterday, when we were all looking at
that great flare of red sunset light,—you wouldn’t speak?”
“It was beautiful, but—you won’t tell, Rose?—the Bear and Rufus would
laugh at me,—it was terrible!”
She looked aside at him, curious and interested. “I think I understand,
and I shall never, never laugh at you, Ned. You must tell me
everything.”
“Sometimes I can’t,” he said. “It is queer, but sometimes I don’t want
to.” He was truthful to a fault, and was of no mind to make
unconditional treaties.
“I understand that, too”; and then they fell into lighter chat of
friends and cousins, until Mr. Lyndsay called “breakfast,” from the
cabin-door, and they went in.
The twins were scarcely more than wide-awake enough to settle down to
serious work at bread and butter and porridge. The canned milk they
pronounced abominable, but soon learned that Mrs. Maybrook’s cows would
furnish a fair supply of their essential diet. Miss Anne came in a
little wearily, glad as she moved of the stay of a chair-back and the
boys’ help, for they all rose at once.
“Did you sleep well?” said Lyndsay.
“No; worse than usual.”
“I thought by your smiling you would have had a good night, but your
dear old face is a dreadful purveyor of fibs. Are you feeling badly
to-day?”
“Sh—sh—!” she cried, “don’t dose me with myself, Archy; as that
delightful Mrs. Maybrook said to Margaret, ‘I do hate to be babied.’ Is
that your tenth corncake, Jack?”
“Ninth, aunty,—I have to eat for you and me. I’m like Thunder Tom’s
voice.”
“That’s the good of being twins,—you can eat for two!” cried Ned.
“It’s my seventh,” said Dick, complacently. “I wouldn’t be such a G. I.
P. as Jack.”
“Sudden death is what he will get,” returned Dick.
“Your seventh,” said Anne. “But how can one die better than facing
fearful odds?” And then there was a little moment of laughter, and the
gay chatter went on. At last Mr. Lyndsay said:
“When you are through, boys, with this astounding breakfast, we will
talk of our plans. Your mother wants to go up the river. She shall have
the two Gaspé men. Rose, you will go with me for a first lesson in
salmon-fishing, and you three boys shall go with Polycarp after trout.
Lunch at one; and remember, boys, no nonsense in the canoe, mind. This
water is too cold and too swift to trifle with. You are a pretty bad
lot, but I should not like to have to choose which I would part with. As
Marcus Aurelius said, ‘Girls make existence difficult, but boys make it
impossible.’”
“Who? What?” cried Rose.
“That was because of Master Commodus,” said Ned.
“I’d like to have licked him,” remarked Jack, whose remedial measures
were always combative.
“He was not a nice boy, like me,” said Dick with a grin.
“Like who? I hope he spoke Latin with decent correctness. Out with you!”
“I had almost forgotten about Marc. Aurelius, aunt,” said Rose, aside.
“I was really taken in for a moment.”
It was a family fiction, and still a half belief, that Archibald Lyndsay
would some day publish a great commentary on the famous emperor’s
philosophy; meanwhile it served a variety of humorous purposes.
“_I_ shall provide myself with a book and sunshine,” said Miss Anne,
“and then with a good field-glass, I shall own the world,—mental and
physical.”
“But are the books unpacked?” said Rose.
“No, but I have all I want. I must go and see.”
Rose set out a lounging-chair on the porch, put beside it a foot-stool
and a rude little table, made by a guide, and following her aunt to her
room, came back laughing with an arm-load of books. Archibald Lyndsay
smiled.
“No wonder that man at St. Lambert’s groaned over Anne’s trunk.”
“That delightful man!” cried Rose, “who checked baggage, switched the
trains off and on, sold tickets, answered questions, and did the work of
three and laughed for six. He told papa ‘he guessed he wasn’t no
Canadian. Not much! Had to go down to York State once a year to eat
pumpkin-pie and get sot up—kind of.’”
“He was of the best type of our people,” said Lyndsay. “Come, Rose; Anne
appears to be reasonably supplied.”
“I should think so, papa. But I must see,—wait a bit.”
“Oh!” he exclaimed, picking the books up in turn, “‘Massillon,’
‘Feuchtersleben,’ what a name! ‘Dietetics of the Soul,’ what a droll
business! ‘The Mystery of Pain,’ my poor Anne! ‘History of the Council
of Trent,’ good gracious!”
At this moment his sister reappeared. “Are you supplied for the morning,
Anne? Past risk of famine, eh!”
“Not, too heavily,” she said. “You know what Marcus Aurelius says about
books. ‘There is nothing as economical as a bad memory, because then
there ariseth no need to buy many books.’ That is my case.”
“Then this is all,” laughed Lyndsay, pointing with his pipe-stem to the
table. “Hum! Well, well! Come, Rose.”
“Yes, go!” cried Anne, seating herself, “and take with you Epictetus.
‘If that which is of another’s life perplex thy judgment, go
a-fishing,—for there thou shall find more innocent uncertainties, and
will capture the whale wisdom, if thou takest nothing else.’ You may
recall the passage. Carp might have been the fish. Eh, Archie?”
“Stuff and nonsense!” cried her brother, as they turned away. “Anne gets
worse day by day, Rose. Come. Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus, indeed!”
As they went down the steps to the bluff, Anne Lyndsay, her thin white
hands in her lap, looked after them. Her face was rarely without a
smile; but, as Rose said truly, “Aunt Anne wears her smiles with a
difference.” Just now her smile was delicately flavored with a look of
satisfied affection. As she looked over river and sun-lit hills, a sharp
twinge of pain crossed her face, and her hands shut tight a moment,
while the sweat of a brief but overpowering pang wrung from her lips an
exclamation. Her life had been physically narrowing for years. As she
became less and less able to go here and there, to do this or that, she
more and more resolutely broadened the horizon of her mental activities,
but, no matter what happened, she continued to smile at or with
everything, herself included. Now she wiped her forehead, and fell to
smiling again, looking sharply about her, for this woman immensely
disliked to be seen in the rare moments when pain was too emphatic for
absolute silence. “I wonder why I hate to be seen,” she said aloud,
being unusually given to soliloquizing; for, as she liked to explain, “I
have more respect for my own opinion if I say it out. It is easier to
disregard the unspoken. I like to think I have the good manners to
listen to myself. It does so trouble Archie, and that girl, for a day
when I break up. I wonder if that small Spartan had had the perpetual
company of his fox, how long he would have gone on without squealing. I
know he wriggled,” she said, and so fell to laughing, after which she
lay back in her chair, waved her handkerchief to Rose, and began to
read.
While the Gaspé canoe went away up the stream, urged by skilful arms,
Archibald Lyndsay and Rose talked merrily.
“I told those boys to keep their eyes open, and not to come back and
tell me they had seen nothing in particular. As for Ned, he is sure to
see certain things and not others. He is a dreamer,—oh, worse than ever,
my dear,—it grows on him.”
“But his dreams—”
“Yes, I know. There is always something in them. He seems to me, Rose,
too absent-minded for this world’s uses. At times he puzzles me. He is
the duck in my henbrood.”
“He is pure gold.”
“Yes, but when he comes to be put into current coin,—really, I don’t
know. As to Rufus,—Dick, I mean, I hate nicknames, and this family has
enough for a directory; you will have six a week,—as to Red-head—”
Rose laughed.
“I get no more respect in this household than—”
“Oh, was that a salmon?” A fish, some three feet long, leaped high in
air, dripping silver in the sun, and fell with a mighty swash into the
glowing waters.
“Yes; there’s another! As to Dick, he sees everything, and for
questions—you are nothing to him. I wanted to talk to you about them,
Rose.”
“And Jack?”
“Oh, Jack! Jack will do. He hates books, but he also hates defeat,—a
first-rate quality, Rose. He is one of the three people I have seen in
my life who honestly enjoy peril. That comes from his Uncle Robert. My
poor Robin used to laugh when he rode into the hottest fight!”
Rose, remembering how the major died at Antietam, was silent. Her father
was also quiet for a few moments.
“That boy must always be fighting somebody. Just now, he and Ned have a
standing difficulty about the Roundheads and Jacobites. I believe it has
cost two black eyes already.”
“How funny! What do you do about it?”
“I? Nothing. Ned is like a cat for activity, small as he is, and as to
an occasional black eye,—well, I don’t ask too many questions.”
“But doesn’t it distress mother?”
“Yes, yes, of course; but so long as they love one another, I find it
wise to say little. By and by, dear, when you are married, and have a
lot of boys of your own, you will understand the wisdom of knowing when
not to see,—when not to ask questions.”
This astounding improbability, of a sudden, struck Rose dumb. Then she
said, abruptly, “Who is that away up the river?”
“Two young Boston men. Are they from the island camp, Tom?”
“Yes, sir,” said Tom, in his great voice. “Mr. Ellett, and Mr.—I don’t
rightly mind me of the other man’s name. Think it’s Carington.”
“Rather a pretty name,” said Rose,—“Carington.”
“Not a New England name, I suspect. Probably Southern. How easily one
tells where most of our family names belong,—the older ones, I mean. Oh,
there is their camp. See how neat everything is about their tents. Above
this point, Rose, there are a few clearings, and the graveyard lies back
from the shore, where our Harry is buried. Poor little man! He was well
out of it, Rose, well out of it. We rarely talk of him. Your mother
dislikes it. For myself, I like better to speak of my dead—and they are
many—in a wholesome way, without the strange reserve which even the best
of folks have about their lost ones. However!”
“Shall we anchor to the head of the pool, sir?” said Tom.
“Yes, yes. And now, Rose, I want first to have you watch me
closely,—hand, rod, and line,—and to try to follow the fly on the water.
I promise you to talk enough about the trees and the waters next Sunday.
There are some dead forests above us, on the river, from which I want
sketches made; but now it is the more serious business of the salmon;
ask what you like.”
“Well, then, isn’t it late to fish? It is eight o’clock.”
“No; the salmon is an aristocrat, and rises late. If you want striped
bass, the break of day is none too early.”
“But will that thin line—what you call the casting-line—hold a great
thing like the fish I saw leap?”
“Yes, with the bend and give of this sixteen-foot rod, and the certainty
with which these matchless Vom Hoff reels work. Look, now, the day is
pleasantly cloudy, the water a little thick, riled,—roily, if you like.
I think a silver doctor—that’s a fly, see, Rose—will do. There, you can
look over my fly-book.”
“Well,” said Rose, “I am compelled to sympathize with the salmon. Are
not our Anglo-Saxon ideas of sport a little hard on birds and fish?”
“We will adjourn that discussion,” said her father, “until you see a
salmon. Then we shall know whether your store of pity will hold out.”
The canoe was now anchored in some four feet of strong, broken water.
The bowman, with his anchor-rope ready, the sternman, on the bottom of
the boat, with his face to the pool, his eye on every cast of the fly.
Mr. Lyndsay stood a little back from the center, a fine figure, Rose
thought, tall, strong, ruddy, with a face clean-shaven, except for
side-whiskers. At first he cast his fly near to the canoe, left and
right in succession, and giving the rod a slight motion, kept the fly
moving down-stream until directly astern of the boat. Then with a new
cast, adding two or more feet of line from the reel, he again let the
swift water run it out. Thus, casting each time a little farther, he
covered by degrees an increasing triangular area of water, of which the
stern of the boat was the apex. As he went on fishing, he chatted with
Rose, who sat in front of him, so that he cast over both the girl and
the burly figure of Tom.
“I am now casting about forty-five feet of line,” he said. “I _can_ cast
about sixty-five, from reel to fly. There are men who can cast one
hundred feet and more, but here it is needless. I could not do it if it
were needed.”
Rose began to think all this a little slow, for a pastime. At last
Lyndsay, saying, “Drop, Tom,” reeled up his line within a few feet from
the long silk leader. As he gave the word, the lump of lead used as an
anchor was lightly lifted and held well in hand, the sternman used his
paddle, and the boat dropped some forty feet farther down the pool, and
was gently anchored. The stream at this place was more broken, and was
what Tom called “strong water.”
The casting business began again, with no better result, so that Rose,
to whom it all looked easy enough, began to find it more pleasant to
watch the shadows of the hills and the heavy clouds moving overhead. Mr.
Lyndsay was now casting some fifty feet of line, and, as Rose turned,
trying to analyze for her own use the succession of movements, she was
struck with the grace and ease with which the line was recovered at the
end of the cast,—sent apparently without effort directly behind the
fisherman, and then without crack or snap impelled in a straight line to
right or left at an angle from the boat, so that the casting-line and
fly dropped or settled lightly on the water; the fly always maintaining
its place at the end of the cast. Then she heard, “You riz him!” “We
have tickled his fancy, Rose, or tempted his curiosity. Now we have a
little game to play. Sometimes we wait a few minutes. I rarely do so
unless the fish are scarce. Look sharp. Did you see him rise?”
“No.”
“That fish lies in a line with yonder dead pine. In this quick water the
fly buries itself, but as I follow it with the rod, you can guess its
place. Most commonly a salmon remains in one spot, with his nose
up-stream, and—”
“Oh!” cried Rose, as the fly reached the indicated spot and a swirl in
the water and a broad back caught her eye. “Oh! oh!”
“It has all the charm of gambling,” said Mr. Lyndsay, “without the
badness.”
“Will he rise again?”
“Perhaps. Ah, not this time”; and after a couple of casts, he said, “Put
on a black dose.”
“A what?”
“Our flies have all manner of queer names. This is a ‘dark fly,’ quite
unlike the bright doctor. It may tempt him.” And at the first cast, with
the same length of line, the peaceful scene was turned into one of
intense excitement.
“There!” cried Rose. “Oh!” for as the new fly reached the fated spot,
there was a sudden flash of white a dozen yards away. The reel ran out a
few feet, the rod was lifted and turned over to bring the winch to the
right hand, and the pressure on the entire length of the bending rod.
The angler sat down.
Tom meanwhile had called to the bowman as the fish struck, and the
anchor was instantly drawn up. For this brief interval of time the great
salmon stayed, pausing. “Thinking what’s wrong,” said Lyndsay. The next
instant the reel sang, and some two hundred feet of line ran out with
incredible swiftness. Far away across the stream a great white thing
leaped high out of the water, as Lyndsay dropped the tip of his rod to
relax the tension of the line.
“How exciting it is!” cried Rose, as the fish leaped again. “I don’t
sympathize with the salmon at all; I am intent on murdering him.”
“Fresh run and clean,” said Tom,—“a beauty!”
The canoe, urged by deft paddles, moved across the river. The tension
relaxing, Lindsay reeled up line. Then again there was a wild rush up
river.
“Tom, quick! After him!”
The next moment the line came back, slack.
“Oh!” cried Rose, “he is gone!”
“No! no!” shouted Tom. “Reel! reel, sir!” and presently the long, loose
line grew tight, for the salmon had turned and made straight for the
boat. Now, once more, he broke water, thirty feet away.
“Them long runs tires ’em,” said Tom, “and the jumps tires ’em more.
Showed his belly, sir.”
Lyndsay now slowly lifted his rod-tip, throwing it back of him, and then
lowering it as he recovered the line.
“Take care, sir!” cried Tom, for once more there was a fierce, short
dash across, and again a leap. This time the fish came in slowly, but
surely, and Tom took his gaff.
“Can you do it?”
“Yes, sir.” The gaff was in, and the great, flapping fish in the boat,
and Rose pretty well splashed with water as Tom cleverly lifted his prey
on the gaff-hook.
“A twenty-pounder, Mr. Lyndsay, sure!”
“Well, Rose, how do you like it?”
“Oh, papa, it is splendid!
“Where are we going?” she added, as the canoe was run ashore.
“The men will put the fish under a bush, to be out of the sun; and now,
what were you about to ask? I saw a question ready in your eyes.”
“I wish, papa—I wish I did not think the fish had a dreadful time. I
have to think of pleasure holding the rod and tragedy at the end of the
line.”
“Upon my word, Rose, you are emphatic. I can assure you, my dear, that
you may safely keep your emotional statements for another occasion.
“Let me tell you something. Once when fishing on the Nipigon, I saw an
odd-looking, very large trout. He rose every time I cast, and at last
took the fly. Now, why the salmon takes the fly, not Solomon could say,
because he eats nothing while in the rivers; but trout are pigs for
greediness. When I looked this hungry trout over, he was still bleeding
from a fish-hawk’s claws, and his intestines and liver were hanging in
the water. Such pain, or injury if you like, as this, does in man
utterly destroy appetite and cause inaction. The inference is plain
enough: fish cannot be said to suffer what we call pain. I once took a
striped bass which had been terribly torn by a gaff. On the whole, Rose,
I conclude that, as we go down the scale of life, there is less and less
of what we call pain, and at last, probably, only something nearer to
discomfort or inconvenience.”
“Is that so? Then we hold our higher place at the cost of suffering,
which must increase as we go on rising through the ages to come?”
“Yes,” said Lyndsay, looking aside with freshened curiosity at this
young logician. “Yes, the rule must work both ways. But man alone has
the power to limit, lessen, even annihilate pain. The amount of pain in
the civilized world must have been vastly diminished within forty years,
since we got ether and the like.”
“And will not that in time lessen our power to endure? But then,” she
added quickly, “that might be of less moment if we are always
increasingly able to diminish or stop pain.”
Lyndsay smiled. This alert grasp of a subject was a novel acquisition.
As he was adjusting a fly, and the boat was dropping to a new station,
she said:
“I hate pain. I don’t believe in its usefulness. Not for Rose Lyndsay,
at least. It only makes me cross.”
“Yet you would hesitate to make a world without it?”
“Yes. One can see the difficulties.”
“The more you think of them the more they multiply. It is, of course,
commonplace to say pain is protective, and in a sense educative. That
one may admit; and yet there will still be such a lot of torment which
is natural that one does keep on wondering why.”
“Do you remember, Pardy,”—this was her nursery name for her
father,—“when Mr. Caramel preached about the uses of pain, and said the
man who suffered was ignorantly rich: he had only to learn to use his
wealth?”
“Oh, very well I remember. As we came out Anne said she would be glad to
be generous with her over-competence, and wanted to send Mr. Caramel a
few of the crumbs to relieve his too comfortable poverty!”
“Yes, only one can’t repeat her bits of grim fun, Pardy; and when she
tells Dick a green-apple stomach-ache is only a joke which he don’t
understand, you must see her face and Dick’s grimace.—Oh, see how that
fish jumped!”
“North has a curious notion that pain, except for early protective
education, is, in a measure, useless. He declares that long bouts of it
make men bad.”
“Not Aunt Anne, Pardy.”
“Oh, a woman! That is different.”
“Nor that splendid fellow, Dr. Hall, now—”
“Bother, Rose! Don’t interrupt me. North says he has seen certain
hysterical women get well as to everything except loss of sense of pain.
He knows of two who are ignorant, at present, of the feeling of pain.
You cannot hurt them. One of them declares that she would on no account
resume the normal state.”
“I cannot imagine any one wanting to be so unnatural, and she must lose
all warnings as to burns and knocks.”
“No, she substitutes intelligent watchfulness for the sentinel pain.”
“I shall never get rid of pain by having hysterics,” said Rose,
confidently. “I can’t imagine that.”
“Occasion may assist imagination. Take care!”
“There is a scornful masculine note in that remark, sir! Why do not men
have hysterics?”
“Ask North; he will refer you to _Hamlet’s_ condition. Isn’t it in Act
I, Scene IV, where he gets what Jack calls ‘rattled’ about the ghost?
North says he was hysterical. Dr. Shakspere knew his business. But I
meant to add that North says there is one case on record of a man who,
in all his life, never knew what pain was,—had no pain; could not be
hurt in any way!”
“How strange!”
“Yes, but we are losing the shining hours. The busiest bee could not
improve them here.”
“No, indeed!”
“Oh, one word more, and then let us pitch the horrid thing overboard. I
was so puzzled once—I still am—about this passage in my Aurelius.”
“Real or fictitious, Pardy? You are not always above following Aunt
Anne’s wicked ways!”
“Oh, real. He says, ‘There is no dishonor in pain.’ I have remarked in
my commentary that this passage is not clear.”
“But is it not, papa? He must mean that dishonor is the worst anguish,
and that pain is only an evil to the body, and that an ache of the soul
is worst of all, and therefore—”
“Only an ill to our grossest part, if we so determine to limit its
effects. Is that it, my dear?”
“I suppose so,” said Rose, with some hesitation. “Yes, that is it.”
“But now you shall argue with a fish. You will be awkward at first. Here
is a lighter rod; we call it a grilse-rod. Tom shall coach you, and I
will grin at your failures!”
“I hate failure!”
“And I loathe it. But, as the Persian poet says, ‘Failure is the child
of doubt, and the grandfather of success.’”
“Pardy! Pardy!” Rose smiled. Those Oriental quotations were family
properties, and a source of some bewilderment to the educated stranger.
“Now, dear, see how I hold the rod—lightly. Yes, so, without tension.
Don’t make too much physical effort. Let the rod do its share. Don’t
insist on doing all, and too much yourself.”
Rose took the rod, and Tom began his lesson. But the gods were good,
and, after a few awkward casts, a salmon, more eager than his kind, made
a mad bolt for the fly, and was off like a crazy thing, across the
stream.
“Turn your rod! Down! Sit down! Tip up! Up! That is rare,” said Lyndsay.
“If that salmon were to keep on running, there would be no salmon for
you. Quick, boys!” for before the anchor was up, the wild fish had run
off two thirds of the reel. Now they were away after him at fullest
speed.
“Reel! reel!” cried Tom. “Reel up!”
“But I am tired! Oh, I shall lose him!”
However, after he had made another run, Rose began to get in the line,
then the fish stopped a moment, and again was away.
Meanwhile, the canoe, in crossing and recrossing, had come close to the
swift water below the pool.
“We have got to go down the rapids, sir.”
“Let her go, then. Steady, Rose, keep a strain on him.”
“But I am nearly dead!”
“You will come to. Quick! Drop the tip!” for as they fled down-stream,
the boat dancing, the water splashing in, the poles, now pushing, now
snubbing the canoe, the salmon made a leap high in air, and fell across
the taut line, which came back free, while Rose looked around in
disgusted amazement.
“He is gone!” she said.
“Yes. You should have lowered the tip when he jumped. But think how
pleased he is, my dear!”
“I hate him!”
“He has got half a leader and a good silver doctor,” said her father.
“You can quote Browning, dear, ‘The Last Leader.’”
“For shame! I knew those things must be weak. I would have a good, thick
rope.”
“You wouldn’t take many fish, miss,” said Tom, grinning.
“What are these wretched leaders made of?” said Rose.
“Silk. They drown the silkworm in vinegar, and then, cutting out the
silk sac, take the two ends, and pull them apart. The silk, for a whole
cocoon, is in a state of thick solution, and is thus pulled out into one
of the many lengths which we tie to make a nine-foot leader.”
“How curious!”
Meanwhile, another leader was well soaked and adjusted, and Rose began
anew. But, although she cast better, no more salmon rose, and, tired
out, she gave up the rod. Mr. Lyndsay had no better luck, and, as it was
close to lunch-time, they ran ashore to pick up their salmon, which Tom
laid in the canoe and covered with ferns. Soon again the little vessel
was in the strong current.
“There is no hurry, Tom,” said Lyndsay; and so the canoe, held straight
by a guiding paddle, glided swiftly onward.
“It is perfect motion, Pardy,—at most, it has the ease and grace of
flight.”
“It makes one envy the fish.”
“Ah, the dear things. I am so glad to be able to think it really does
not hurt them.”
“Hurt ’em?” said Tom. “They likes it, else why’d they want it. They
needn’t ’less they’re a mind to.”