One calm Sunday morning Donald paddled across the lake to try the fly at
the mouth of the small creek which flowed past the trapper’s cabin. The
clear water was as smooth as glass and the trout refused to be lured
from the depths. After casting steadily for fifteen minutes without a
rise, he sat down to enjoy a smoke. Sounds from afar came with
surprising clearness through the quiet air. Andy was splitting wood
outside the cabin door, and the sound of his axe and the words of his
song brought a medley of returning echoes. Loons gabbled, wild ducks of
many varieties shifted their positions with a whistling rush of wings.
The “chee-ry, chee-ry” of a flock of chickadees sounded from a copse of
willows on the creek bank. The warmth of the morning gave promise of a
hot day when the sun should reach the zenith. A breath of cool air
rippled the lake’s surface, bringing with it the faint rumble of a
waterfall high up the mountain-side. Donald paddled to the shore,
crossed the rustic bridge to where the trapper was working in his
garden, and sat down on a convenient stump.
“Good morning, John.”
“Mornin’, ol’ timer.”
“John, is there a waterfall on the big creek?”
“Yes, I’ve heard ’em, an’ I’ve seen ’em from the ridge, but I ain’t ever
bin close to ’em.”
“Do you think there would be any fish at the foot of the falls?”
“Couldn’t say, ol’ timer. It ain’t never bin fished.”
To the disciples of Isaac Walton the expression “never been fished”
brings an incomparable thrill. To cast a fly on virgin waters is the
acme of bliss to an angler. Donald unjointed his rod, slung his basket
over a shoulder and started toward the trail.
“Ye better let me fix ye up a lunch to take along,” the trapper shouted
after him.
“Good suggestion,” admitted Donald as he retraced his steps.
Fried eggs placed between slices of snow-white bread, fresh doughnuts,
cake and cheese were quickly prepared by the deft hands of the old
trapper, and Donald was again on his way.
He tried to follow the stream, but the sides were so precipitous that he
was forced to climb to the ridge or “hog-back.” Here he found the
walking excellent, as there was no under-brush and the ground was
covered with a soft moss.
At intervals through the park-like pines he caught the glint of running
water in the gorge below. The air was warm, but the gentle zephyrs
wafted from the glacial stream brought a coolness that was almost chill.
The sound of the falls became louder as he climbed higher, increasing to
a trembling roar as he came to the edge of a boulder-strewn precipice.
Here there met his gaze a tumbling cascade of water, falling from a
cliff to an iridescent pool sixty feet below.
Donald scrambled and slid to the lower level, only to find that he would
have to walk down stream and wade up in order to get within reach of the
pool. By leaping from rock to rock he managed to reach a flat ledge near
the side that allowed him perfect freedom for casting. The spray reached
him in the form of a fine mist that felt grateful after his exertions. A
shaft of brilliant sunshine, looking like a searchlight where it
penetrated the heavy mist, was reflected and refracted to form a rainbow
that shone resplendently against the dark wall of the canyon. On each
side rose a sheer wall of rock, with here and there a small fir or
spruce clinging to fissures where sufficient earth had accumulated to
give it nourishment. At the point where the cataract struck the pool
there was a mass of heaving, foaming water that spread in ever lessening
waves to become gentle ripples lapping softly on the shores.
The little birds known as waterousels, or dippers, were in their
element. Standing on the rocks around which the turbulent waters roared,
they bobbed and curtsied, then flew in under the waterfall to their
nests in the damp niches of the rocks. Far overhead, like a speck in the
azure sky, a bald eagle careened and soared. Over all was the thunder of
the cataract drumming in Donald’s ears and giving to the earth a gentle
tremor.
He began eagerly to joint his rod, attach leader and flies, and unfold
his landing-net. “There,” he said, when he had completed the task, “I’ll
just throw that in to soak while I have a smoke.”
He cast carelessly, laid the rod down and reached for a cigarette.
“B-r-r-r-r,” the reel shrilled madly. He made a wild clutch for the rod,
retrieving it just as the tip entered the water. A big rainbow trout
leaped into the air with a flash of prismatic colours, and made that
graceful curve that is so pleasing to the fisherman’s eye. The
five-ounce rod bent double as he checked the trout’s rush. Then the line
slackened as the fish turned and came toward him with incredible speed.
He reeled frantically to take in the slack line. Once more the gamey
trout turned and the line was singing with the strain. Suddenly it went
straight down and in the pellucid depths he could see it lying near the
bottom with tail and fins moving listlessly. Slowly he reeled in the
line, bringing the fish nearer and nearer. With landing-net extended
Donald leaned forward; but with a quick flirt of its tail the trout shot
to the surface, sending a shower of spray in his face. Then, leaping and
dashing—the reel singing merrily—it crossed the pool with renewed
energy. Unexpectedly the whirr of the reel ceased and the rod was nearly
jerked from Donald’s hands—a detested “back lash.” In other words, the
line had tangled at the reel. The slender rod was bent nearly to a
circle.
“It won’t stand it,” muttered Donald in a fever of excitement. He
lowered the tip slowly to relieve the strain on the rod, all the while
working desperately to free the tangle. Snap! The fish with a tremendous
tug parted the leader, and with one last triumphant leap to flaunt its
brilliant colours, it disappeared.
It is universally understood among the angling fraternity that when a
fish is lost under such conditions the Recording Angel turns her head.
In an hour the cold spray from the glacial water had dampened Donald’s
clothing and benumbed his fingers. The basket by then being nearly full,
and his wrist lame from casting and playing the fish, he decided to
quit. As he climbed the ridge the air above felt like a breath from an
oven in contrast to the atmosphere of the canyon.
Through a tall, stately grove of pines Donald descried an open glade
whence came the sound of running water. He walked through the dark
aisles of towering trees, his feet making no sound on the thick carpet
of soft needles. Pushed aside a growth of low deciduous trees that
fringed this open passage in the woods, he gazed upon a scene that held
him entranced. At some time in the earth’s remote history moving ice had
gouged out this tiny valley and left a rich deposit of glacial silt. A
small mountain stream cascaded from a moss-covered cliff to fall from
ledge to ledge and flash crystal clear and sparkling through the vividly
green grass and bright flowers which formed the carpet of the valley
floor. The brilliant columbine, interspersed with the yellow marigold
and dandelion, made bright splotches of colour. Wild roses hung in
masses in the border of low green shrubs. The white rein orchis grew in
rank profusion everywhere, filling the air with its delicate perfume.
Ferns and cotton grass grew to the very edge of the limpid brook that
prattled musically over the moss-covered stones. A rabbit with her young
nibbled at the tender grass roots at the far side of the creek.
Humming-birds buzzed back and forth and a bluejay—the Paul Pry of the
woods—peered curiously down at the interloper, with its head moving
from side to side and its beady eyes shining. Then with a startled
shriek it flew across the glade—like a streak of blue in the
sunshine—to hold excited colloquy with its mate. A willow grouse sailed
from a cliff above to land with a great preening of feathers and move
with a peculiar gliding run to the shelter of a stand of salal bushes.
Near the centre of the field was a “fairy ring” of mushrooms about
twelve feet across. The beginning of these rings may be a single
mushroom which drops its spores in a circle about its base. The next
season a smaller ring of mushrooms drops a larger ring of spores, and so
the circle expands year by year, exactly as the ripple spread out on the
surface of a pond when a stone is cast into the water.
Some fairy rings have been estimated to be six hundred years old. Legend
informs us that these rings are magic circles within which elves and
other nimble fairy folk hold their revels at midnight. There is another
superstition that the rings mark the spots where bolts of lightning have
struck the ground.
“A fairy-land!” breathed Donald as he stepped into the open.
It was warm, but now and again a breeze, that had swept between
snow-capped peaks, dropped down into the valley and made the pines sway
and the willow and alder leaves coolly rustle. At the time of these
visitations Donald threw back his head and drew in deep breaths of the
flower-scented breeze.
Making his way to the foot of the tiny falls, Donald seated himself on a
soft bed of moss and proceeded to eat his lunch. Two birds, of the
species known as “camp-robbers” or “whiskey-jacks,” dropped ghost-like
from nowhere and eyed him reproachfully. He threw them a crust of bread.
There was a shrill cry like that of a hawk, that sent the feathered
visitors in terror to the safety of the trees, and a flash of blue
landed on the bread. With a chuckle, almost human a bluejay flew to the
top of a spruce to enjoy his meal at leisure.
Donald’s happy laugh rang throughout the sylvan glade and was re-echoed
mockingly from the cliffs. The camp-robbers emerged from their retreat
looking rather crestfallen. They took no chances with the crust thrown
to them the second time. Each seized a generous portion and retreated
hastily.
Donald selected a soft spot in the shade of a small grove of cedars,
stretched himself at full length on his back, and lighted a cigarette.
The sound of murmuring waters, the rustle of leaves, the gentle sighing
of the pines, and the fragrant, balmy air that fanned his face held a
soporific influence. He watched a fleecy cloud floating far above the
tree-tops in the ethereal blue. A long-tailed wren, of the white throat
and white eye lines sang joyously from a tree nearby.
Donald’s eyes closed slowly, and in a moment he was in a doze. As though
in a dream he felt something brush his face and he shook his head. An
instant later the tip of a cedar bough fell fairly on his face. He
brushed quickly with his hand as though to dislodge a fly. A larger
branch fell with a gentle swish to land on his nose. This time he opened
his eyes and plucked the branch from his face, noticing as he did so
that it was freshly broken. “Odd,” he thought, and lay with eyes half
closed to detect the cause of this singular occurrence.
Near the top of the four small cedars under which he lay there seemed to
be a nest-like thickness. There was a movement in the tops of the trees,
and Donald’s amazed eyes saw a little brown hand steal forth holding a
cedar tip. Then a small childish face appeared, surrounded by a mass of
lovely golden hair. The face was one of sheer, exquisite blonde beauty,
marked by a pair of wide, roguish blue eyes, as blue as pansies, a small
pensive mouth that formed a cupid’s bow, and an impudent little nose
dotted with freckles. As the slender hand loosed the branch, Donald’s
astonished eyes looked up directly into the blue ones looking down on
him so full of mischief. There was a startled gasp and the golden head
disappeared amid a great swaying of branches.
Donald came slowly to his feet, rubbing his eyes. Was this a fantastic
dream, or had he actually seen a child’s face? He looked at the branches
on the ground, and again his eyes sought the tree-tops. He could now see
that some sort of big nest was built within the tops of the four small
cedars.
“Hello,” he ventured.
A slight rustling of the branches followed, but no answer.
“Hello, wood-nymph!”
Still no answer, but a low silvery laugh was proof that the occupant of
the nest was not a wraith.
“If you are a fairy,” he persisted, “won’t you come down and give me a
Terpsichorean exhibition in the fairy ring on the floor of your
enchanted glade?”
“I am a dryad,” came the dulcet tone of a childish voice, “and a dryad’s
life is bound up in her tree. I cannot leave my arboreal bower until the
hour of midnight.
“We’ll see about that,” laughed Donald as he seized the slender cedars
and rocked them violently.
A scream of simulated fear came from the tree-tops. “Stop!” the voice
cried, “I’ll come down.”
A tiny moccasined foot felt its way to a limb, and a slight figure clad
in men’s overalls and a brown cotton shirt, stood erect with downcast
eyes.
“Jump,” invited Donald, as he stood with arms outstretched; “fairies
don’t weigh much.”
The “dryad” shook her head bashfully, then with a quick, bird-like
motion sprang straight out into the air, her golden hair streaming and
flashing in the sunshine. She landed gracefully on her moccasined feet
and went bounding across the valley, leaping the creek with the ease and
grace of an antelope, and, without turning her head, disappeared in the
dark forest aisles.
Donald’s black eyes remained fixed on the spot where the fairy-like
vision vanished from view. His whole attitude registered astonishment.
He was completely mystified by the appearance of a girl in this remote
wilderness.
He climbed the trees for a glimpse of the golden-haired fairy’s bower. A
rope was tied around the tops of the four cedars, with interlacings of
cord between. This rope pocket was filled with pine boughs, and these
covered with ferns and moss. A cord that led to a nearby spruce was, he
decided, used to impart a swinging motion to this strange maiden’s cosy
retreat.
In the centre of this cosy nest lay a copy of “Tennyson’s Poems” and a
book on “Bird Life.” As Donald leaned closer a gentle breeze fluttered
the leaves of the book of poems.
“Fairy hands turned to the right page,” he mused aloud as he read these
lines from “Maud.”
“My bird with the shining head.
My own dove with the tender eye. . . .
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.”
“A corner of dreamland,” murmured Donald.
A stronger breeze swept down the valley, causing the nest to rock with
gentle undulations. “A novel idea,” he thought, “and what a restful spot
to sleep and dream!”
Donald was tempted to finish his nap in the vacated dryad’s nest, but
put the thought aside as being almost a sacrilege. He descended to the
ground, picked up his basket and started down the mountain. As he neared
the lake he saw the trapper with Douglas and Andy sitting outside the
cabin door.
“Any luck, ol’ timer?”
Donald lifted the lid of the basket.
“Whew!” ejaculated the trapper. “Them’s wallopers, ain’t they?”
“John,” queried Donald as he sat down on the grass, “did you ever see a
dryad?”
“A what?”
“A dryad.”
The trapper’s wrinkled face puckered. “Yeh,” he answered quizzically, “I
seen lots of them fellers in Vancouver one time after I’d bin drinkin’
for a week.”
Donald told of his meeting with the strange child of the forest. “Who is
she, John?” he asked.
“That was little Connie Wainwright. She an’ her father live in a little
valley t’other side of that bluff,” pointing up the mountain. “She’s a
great kid, too. She has a hoss that’s named after a hoss that had wings.
I forgit the name she calls him.” The trapper pondered for a moment.
“Pegasus,” prompted Donald.
“That’s it. She rides that hoss like a Texas Ranger, an’ she’s a crack
shot with the rifle. Funny thing, though, she ain’t ever shot anything
to my knowledge ’cept a cougar that tried to get her pet deer. Her
father’s jest the same, he won’t kill nothin’ an’ they’ve got all the
birds ’round their cabin as tame as chickens. They are always studyin’
birds, flowers, an’ animals. He’s an Englishman of eddication, an’ he’s
eddicated the kid, too. Was the ‘Breed’ with her?”
“No. Who is the Breed?”
“He’s a half-breed Indian with a lame leg. He came over the trail ’bout
two years ago. Got one look at that shiny haired kid an’ thought she was
an angel, I guess, an’ has been hantin’ her ever since. He built hisself
a cabin up there. Works for Wainwright in the summer an’ traps in the
winter. He follers that kid ’round like a dog follers its master.”
Donald was interested.
“I must call on them.”
“He’ll be glad to see ye, as ye can talk his lingo. His langwidge is too
high-falutin’ for me. He sometimes comes to ask me ’bout the habits of
animals, but I got a sneakin’ notion that he knows more ’bout it than I
do.”
That evening Donald and Andy visited the recluse.