|
Side 44 av 112
There is no sport in bringing pets to the table. It may be
necessary sometimes; but the true sportsman would always prefer to
leave the unpleasant task of execution to menial hands, while he
goes out into the wild country to capture his game by his own
skill,--if he has good luck. I would rather run some risk in this
enterprise (even as the young Tobias did, when the voracious pike
sprang at him from the waters of the Tigris, and would have devoured
him but for the friendly instruction of the piscatory Angel, who
taught Tobias how to land the monster),--I would far rather take any
number of chances in my sport than have it domesticated to the point
of dulness.
The trim plantations of trees which are called "forests" in certain
parts of Europe--scientifically pruned and tended, counted every
year by uniformed foresters, and defended against all possible
depredations--are admirable and useful in their way; but they lack
the mystic enchantment of the fragments of native woodland which
linger among the Adirondacks and the White Mountains, or the vast,
shaggy, sylvan wildernesses which hide the lakes and rivers of
Canada. These Laurentian Hills lie in No Man's Land. Here you do
not need to keep to the path, for there is none. You may make your
own trail, whithersoever fancy leads you; and at night you may pitch
your tent under any tree that looks friendly and firm.
Here, if anywhere, you shall find Dryads, and Naiads, and Oreads.
And if you chance to see one, by moonlight, combing her long hair
beside the glimmering waterfall, or slipping silently, with gleaming
shoulders, through the grove of silver birches, you may call her by
the name that pleases you best. She is all your own discovery.
There is no social directory in the wilderness.
|
