The clouds would assemble daily about the summits of the Sierra Mimbres, whence come the waters of the Rio Grande. Prayers were unavailing; the morning brought the usual complement of fleecy harbingers, and by noon the hosts were marshaled in mighty platoons of black and gray; the artillery was unlimbered, the sun retreated in dismay, and the spree commenced. For two or three hours there would be a terribly sublime row up in the vicinage of the granite and dwarfed timber, that would reach down to the lower hills, and with its results set roaring the little rivulets and usually dusty arroyos, to swell the already turbid waters of the beautiful river. The daily dull monotony was wearing; I thought, more than once, that “hope deferred maketh the heart sick,” and concluded I had struck the inspiration of the proverb.
The Old Man sat on Jordan’s rugged banks, waiting for that creek to clear up so that he could indulge himself in his favorite amusement. He’d been there a week, camped out, restricted to potato and flitch diet, and had not wet a line. His fly books were an aggravation, and his split bamboo a source of misery. The evening would give promise of crystal water on the morrow, and each morning brought with it a stream of thick, yellow fluid. A trout would no more rise in it than upon the heaven-kissing hills that gathered the cause of his tribulation about their cloud-compelling peaks. The fir-crowned hills and majestic cliffs had lost their charm, the grasshopper had become a burden, and there was no more music in the roily water than in the mosquito’s song. I presume he has forgotten all about it by this time, yet my soul cried out in sympathy.
But I was better off than he. He had no John to console him with stories of leviathans caught by other rodsters “last summer.” John would scorn anything less than a three-pound trout to embellish his romances; five, six, and even nine pounds were evolved in his imagination. I took him for a Vermont Yankee, but it transpired that the Ozark Mountains claimed him for their own, without the prospect of any other place setting up a demand for him when he dies—if he ever does. He is tall and thin, has a stoop in his shoulders and slouches in his gait; his garments, such as he has, fit him—not so well as they would the clothes line; he has a Roman nose and gray eyes, he chews the fragrant “nigger head,” and his saffron-hued incisors habitually caress his nether lip. His mouth is always open, and his scraggy beard would vie in symmetry with a patch of hazel brush demoralized by a Kansas cyclone. A few days ago I wagered him a quarter that he could not close his lips and keep them so three minutes. I won the bet, but have not yet realized upon it. John is a booley, fortunately for the rest of humanity.
Becoming a little impatient at John and the periodically feculent condition of the river, I suggested to the Captain a run up to Antelope Park, twenty-five miles away, and a few casts for the denizens of certain minor tributaries to the Rio Grande. The suggestion proved agreeable to him.
The next morning after an early breakfast we mounted the buckboard, and in company with the United States mail for somewhere, a nervous driver and a pair of wild mules, we arrived at our destination before noon. Telegraphic facilities being somewhat limited, our coming had not been heralded. Our driver left us with our traps in front of a comfortable-looking house, but it required half an hour to find the landlord. We had lived long enough in the country to recognize in every house a hotel. We would have taken ourselves and belongings into the first convenient room, but that a large black dog kindly took us under his immediate supervision. It began to rain, but the dog gave no intimation whatever of inconvenience on that score; indeed, I think he rather enjoyed it. The Captain, after we had admired the dog for a quarter of an hour, slipped his hand into his hip pocket. I don’t know whether to attribute the dog’s sudden disappearance to his superior intelligence and knowledge of the ways of the country, or to the coming of the landlord. Her greeting was cordial when she hove in sight:
“Glad to see you gentlemen suppose you’ve come afishin’ didn’t know as you was comin’ or I’d a had dinner instead of bein’ out to see to them colts the last two died and I don’t propose to have no more of that kind of business not if I know myself you bet these has been tended to right and I know it they was risin’ three year and of course gettin’ too big to run loose that husband of mine run away with another woman two year ago and he come back in less’n three months for me to take him back again but I told him to pack and he did since then I’ve ran this ranche alone and propose so to do she was older than him”——
“Can you give us a glass of milk,” I broke in, irreverently, on this bit of family history, delivered without a pause, with the end, if it had any, promising to outlive us and run into the next century, “you can get us something to eat later in the day.”
“Milk certainly you can have all the milk you want and whatever else there is in the house to eat ’taint much but I’ll do the best I can what’s your business?”
“Just at present we are in search of clear water and trout.”
“Plenty of trout in the creek though the river’s rily and trout won’t rise in rily water I suppose you know there’s some big ones in the creek one took off a leader and fly for me yesterday but I’m goin’ to snatch him out of that hole yet but what I want to know is what do you do for a livin’ people have to rustle in this country or tramp.”
Having deposited our traps in the front room, I told her I was a preacher and the Captain a Sunday-school superintendent.
“Well stranger I haven’t got but mighty little use for gospel sharps they don’t give anybody’s house a good reputation leastways I’ve so hearn tell but perhaps if you doesn’t go psalm singin’ and prayin’ round here nobody ’ill know any better you doesn’t look much like preachers anyway.”
The conclusion was fired at us over her shoulder as she disappeared after the milk. I looked at the Captain seriously and asked him if he thought he could stand it for a day or so; he said he thought he could by going out early and coming in late and going to sleep the balance of the time.
The milk was rich and sweet, but a word of commendation inadvertently uttered by the Captain resulted in a history from birth to maternity, and the details of travail of each of thirteen cows, with the condition of their offspring, their present and prospective value and probable increase.
Leaving him to be further enlightened by this disquisition on bovine tocology, I escaped, and with rod and creel started up the creek. Five minutes after, and before I had lost sight of the house, a hail from the Captain brought me to a halt.
“What puzzles me,” said the Captain wearily, “is to learn how that landlord’s husband had strength enough left to run away; he had three years of it; his vitality must have been something remarkable.”
“His coming back is harder to comprehend.”
“I think not; that gives me the only solution to the mystery. You see, he must have been a lunatic; that will account for his strength physically; and for his returning. But do you see that pool? That’s the home of the trout that took the landlord’s leader. I’m going for him.”
“All right; I’ll wait and see you do it.”
The Captain slipped down the bank, seeking the shelter of a clump of willows, and made a cast into the center of a pool, the bare appearance of which suggested the certain lurking place of trout. He did not have out over twenty feet of line, and the coachman lit cleverly, but without effect. Another cast, a little further toward the lower end, and yet no rise. A third—there is luck in odd numbers—where the water began to break at the head of the ripple, and the landlord’s trout got himself into trouble. There was no stiff cane pole with a tyro at the end of it this time, but a lithe Bethabara of seven ounces, in the hands of one who knew the use of it. It was a very pretty ten minutes’ fight, when the despoiler of the landlord’s tackle turned up his side and was towed ashore; the fish had a remnant of the broken leader still in its jaw. He weighed a little less than a pound, though we had been informed, as usual, that his weight was four pounds, at least.
We trudged on up the creek, crossing four or five times to shorten the walk, until we reached a point two miles from the ranche. Each taking his side, we began moving down stream, snaking out the little fellows, from seven to ten inches in length, until we had more than enough for a late dinner. Concluding that the trout in these grounds might grow a little if let alone, we walked back. The manner in which the catch was served up with warm biscuit, fresh butter, and coffee with cream in it, made the conversation of the landlord interesting.
We were advised, that, had we gone a mile further, larger trout would have rewarded us. It being affirmed beyond contradiction that the larger fish were holding a sort of salmon tea higher up stream, and the Rio Grande still being muddy, the next morning found us nearly a couple of miles further toward the head waters. But if there were any trout exceeding a half pound in any of the pools industriously tickled by us, they must have known who we were, and, therefore, declined an interview.
This kind of sport had not been bargained for; a strict adherence to the trail, with diligence, would enable us to reach the ranche in time for a lunch and the buckboard “going down.” We made it, besides having time to bid our landlord adieu, the sound of her melodious voice gradually dying out as the wild mules increased the distance between us.
That evening the river gave promise, as usual, of being clear in the morning, always provided, of course, that it had not rained “up above.” But the next day we learned that the customary entertainment had taken place among the lofty peaks of the San Juan. When any man again tells you that “it never rains in Colorado,” remind him of Ananias’ fate.
A day did come, finally, and go, through all the hours of which the sun had an easy time of it in making things warm; in the evening we could fairly see the boulders in the river, and the next day it was clear. But back in the west the clouds had already gathered, and if any trout were to be captured we could not stand upon the order of our going. After breakfast half a dozen of us piled into the wagon, rode five miles down the river and began operations, which we were satisfied must cease by noon. For half an hour or so the trout raised fairly, and then the casts increased from one to a dozen, and this was finally resolved into a devoted whipping of every likely place without avail.
Toward lunch time I waded ashore, clambered up the bank ten feet above the river, and stood waiting for my comrade of the morning. He was standing in the stiff current, thigh deep, and faithfully sending his flies into a long eddy thirty feet away. I called him, but the response I received was that the place had never failed him, and he wanted to go the length of it. So I stood watching the play of his split bamboo and the curl of the light silk line; now and then the heel of his leader would strike, but generally the coachman on the end was first to touch the water. He had told me only the day before, though he acknowledged it was beyond his skill, that in casting, one should never use more than the forearm; that to confine the movement to the wrist was still better. The awkwardness of the full-stretched arm swinging back and forth was apparent, but to one unaccustomed to light tackle the habit is hard to overcome. I told him to keep his arm down, and he did for two or three casts; then up it went again, he forgetting the admonition in his desire to reach a few feet further. When I reminded him of it he looked round, laughingly, and said he couldn’t. Just then my attention was called to a pilgrim with weak eyes peering out from under the broken-down brim of an old felt hat, sallow as the mug it covered; his butternut jeans tucked in his boots, and his woolen shirt suggestive of other occupants than himself.
“What does a pole like that cost, Mister?” motioning with his head to the bamboo I held in my hand. Being disposed to treat everybody with civility, I told him.
“I don’t think anybody kin ketch fish with that ’ar thing, ’cept little ones. I like one o’ them long stiff fellers to jerk ’em with; I shouldn’t think this here thing was no account,” and he gesticulated with his head again. “Now, the best way to git fish is with a net; now, I wish I had a net; look at that ’ar man thar, he’ll not git a fish in a week.”
“Mark you, my friend!” The libel stepped back a couple of paces; I don’t know why. “If you catch fish in that way, they will cost you ten dollars each,” I continued mildly. “Try it, I wish you would; there is a standing reward of five hundred dollars for such fishermen as you claim to be; perhaps I might get the money and you a rope.”
“See here, Mister, I ain’t got no net; I ain’t goin’ to ketch no fish; I’m goin’ to Silverton; I don’t keer ’bout fishin’ no way; hits mighty po’ business.”
“The sooner you get to Silverton the better—every man, woman and child in this park wants to earn that five hundred dollars.”
What further I might have said I don’t know, but just then my friend with the split bamboo hailed me; he had made a strike, to his own surprise as well as mine, for the water had become quite cloudy. With his face down stream and rod well up, he was talking to his victim much as one would address a fractious colt. It was pleasant to listen to his expressions of assurance that no harm should come to his troutship if he would only behave himself, followed by a threatening admonition at every rush for liberty. If my tall friend was not skilful enough to carry away the first prize at a casting tournament, he knew at least how to handle and save the victim he had struck. Having quite exhausted him, he was reeled in till the line could be grasped, and the trout was drawn cautiously within reach; the line was then changed to the rod hand, and with a quick movement, evidently not acquired without practice, that trout was scooped up against the angler’s stomach; the next movement was to run his dexter finger into the trout’s mouth, press his thumb upon its neck and break it, the fish being held in the left hand, and the three fingers of the right holding the rod. Having thus killed him, the hook was removed, and he was held up triumphantly to be admired. The rest of the party had arrived in time to see the close of the struggle with a handsome two pounds and three ounces of salmon-colored luxury.
The misery under the felt hat had departed.
John Doe—and by Doe I do not mean the Doe ex dem. Gorges vs. Webb, nor Doe, lessee of Gibbon vs. Pott. My John Doe was not a Doe of fiction, but a gentleman of flesh and blood. He was not a great man, it is true, except in the matter of temperance and cleanliness. As he has not gone into history because of either of those virtues, and has no doubt been, in the course of nature, long since gathered to his fathers, leaving no issue, I may write of him without fear of giving offense.
The unblemished linen and highly polished shoes of Mr. Doe always challenged my boyish admiration. The enviable condition of his shoes I could account for. He cleaned them with his own hands, I knew, because I had, on more than one occasion, discovered him in the act. Whatever Mr. Doe did, he endeavored, at least, to do well. There were no dull spots on his shoes, but an exquisite evenness of polish pervaded their whole surface from heel to toe and from top to shank. In connection with the linen they indicated to me the possession by their owner of an always desirable credit. I had been taught to believe that no gentleman ever permitted himself to be seen in foxy shoes or soiled linen. It did not follow, of course, that all men in clean shoes and linen were gentlemen, nor did I so understand it, but that the fortunate possessor of these well conditioned articles of apparel presented, as it were, a prima facie case for my consideration. They were component parts, so to speak, in the absence of which, the accomplishment of the structure suggested would be an impossibility. The garments of Mr. Doe were rarely new, as a whole; a new coat, for instance, was not always seen in his company with a new pair of trousers. Whether he labored under the impression that the display of an entire new suit upon his person would mark him as a man of too much magnificence, or whether the condition of his finances deterred him, I am not prepared to say. But whether new, or napless and white at the seams, they were always innocent of dust. His linen, however, was a mystery to me; certainly he did not himself do it up, he kept no servant and it was not sent out. It may be surmised that I had rather an intimate acquaintance with the domestic establishment of Mr. Doe. I did, and it was not savory—I mean when considered from the broom and soap and water stand-point.
The house of Mr. Doe was the home of odors, wherein the fragrance of boiled cabbage and onions seemed to wage perpetual warfare for supremacy. The pattern of the carpet in the best room has escaped my memory, but a spot in it will always linger with me as fixed as in the carpet. This spot was about the size of an ordinary chair seat, and was always associated in my mind with a ham, a twenty pound ham; as if the hind-quarter of a magnificent porker had suddenly melted its shape into the brown and orange tints of the best carpet and refused, with porcine obstinacy, to come out. The furniture, as long as I saw it, was in a chronic state of immature cleanliness, and impressed me with the idea that some one had been round with a wet cloth, and, having been suddenly called to the front door, had neglected to come back.
Mrs. Doe I remember as a tall, thin lady, in a black calico gown with little round gray and brown spots; and I have a recollection of debating in my mind as to the original color of those spots, and of concluding that they had at one time been uniformly white, and that that time must have been long before I had enjoyed the acquaintance of Mrs. Doe. The complexion of Mrs. Doe was dark, her eyes brown, and her hair, which was abundant and black, always looked dusty and as if about to tumble down. I remember seeing the lady once seated in a Windsor chair with her heels resting on the front edge—at least I supposed her heels were there—her chin resting on her knees and her hands clasped round her ankles. She said to me upon that occasion that she was not well, and when I sympathized with her I wondered whether it was cabbage or onions, or both. But as I have to do principally with Mr. Doe, I trust I may not be charged with lack of gallantry, if, without apology, I take leave of his estimable lady.
Mr. Doe worked in blue cotton overalls six days in the week, as a maker of watches, and walked on the seventh, the weather permitting; or he walked on the first and worked on the other six days, as you please. He always walked with a cane; why, was also for some time a mystery, he being an active man with no apparent use for support of that character. As a boy, I had an interest in both his occupation and amusement; an ambition to possess a result of the one and to join him in the other. Too young, and withal beset by the poverty usually attendant upon youth, to have the first, and deterred by maternal influences from indulging in the latter, were among my tribulations of that period. I contemplated the bliss of walking with Mr. Doe with an eagerness hard to overcome; and I have sometimes felt that the fear of mere reproof, unaided by the respect in which I held the tender branches of the beautiful shellbark in our back yard, would not have prevented my running away. One other obstacle conspired with those already suggested, more potent perhaps than either: permission was a condition precedent to the acquiescence of Mr. Doe.
But there came a day when my best friend was away from home, and I felt emboldened to interrupt my other best friend in the act of putting the fork into the breast of a beautifully browned canvas-back, with the suggestion, that on the morrow, with his permission, I would be pleased to take a walk with Mr. Doe.
“Take a walk with Mr. Doe!” The wings and legs of the duck were severed upon reaching the exclamation point, and the blade of the carver was finding its way delicately through the plump breast and becoming dim with the roseate tint, that denoted the skill of the cook, when he continued:
“To-morrow is Sunday, and you should go to Sunday school and to church.”
My bosom became as bare of hope as the carcass before me was of meat.
“What would your mother say?”
“Ah, you are not certain, then?”
Thinking, perhaps, that he was pressing me too closely in the wrong direction for his purpose, he gave me some relief by inquiring the direction of Mr. Doe’s proposed tour.
“Out in the country.”
“Mr. Doe is going hunting, I suppose?”
“Oh, no! he wouldn’t hunt Sunday; I don’t think he’s fond of hunting; and, besides, isn’t it wicked to hunt on Sundays, and shoot off your gun and make a noise?”
“Perhaps it is, but—” upon reflection, at this distance of time, I think my interrogator was about putting a leading question, suggesting an analogy beyond my capacity to distinguish, except in the matter of the noise. At all events he hesitated,—“but, as I am informed, Mr. Doe generally remains away all day when he takes his walks on Sunday—you will lose your dinner.”
“I shall not want any dinner.”
“No, of course—not till noon; but take a lunch, and be a good boy.”
I do not remember at this late day whether or not, upon the foregoing announcement, I apprehended that Mr. Doe might, through some possible contingency, vary his custom, and go walking Saturday afternoon. I did, however, deem it expedient to leave my dinner unfinished, with a view of communicating with him without delay. Receiving his assurance that he would take me to walk with him on the morrow, I went back to my pastry. The sun came up as usual the next day; there had been no convulsion of nature, in our vicinity at least; the morning was cloudless, without any prospect of untoward circumstance to interfere with our anticipated pleasure.
Mr. Doe announced himself at our front gate immediately after breakfast; he would no doubt have come to the door had I not obviated the necessity for his so doing by neglecting my coffee, and nervously anticipating him on the porch. He had his cane with him, and his shoes and linen presented their ordinary, unobjectionable appearance, as if defiant of criticism.
Our course was through the city, westerly some three miles, and out to a road beyond what in those days was called “The Heights.” The neighborhood was new to me, and Mr. Doe took pleasure, seemingly, in pointing out various objects of interest, not forgetting walnut and hickory trees, and even persimmons, that gave promise of good things after frost. Among other things, I remember he called my attention to a blue and misty looking object a great distance off, which looked in shape like the Pyramids of Egypt, as shown in my geography. This, he told me, was the Sugar Loaf; and when I asked him why it was so named, he thought because it did not resemble a sugar loaf. But it was my first mountain, and I have always carried with me a pleasant remembrance of it. Our road lay by an old frame house, with a porch and well, at which we stopped to drink. The house, he told me, was known as the “Bull’s Head;” why it was so named he was unable to inform me. Finally we reached the vicinity of it covered bridge, spanning a fine stream. He said it was the “Chain Bridge,” but not seeing any chains, I felt compelled to inquire why everything away from home seemed to bear titles that were evidently not appropriate. Not being able to impart to me any satisfactory information upon that head, he called my attention to the Little Falls; I learned these were called Little, because there were Big Falls farther up stream.
Mr. Doe informed me that this was a good place to fish. Unskilled in the gentle art, but curious, I suggested that it would afford me infinite delight to see him fish. He then wanted to know if I would not like to try my hand; being informed of my inability to do so through lack of knowledge and tackle, he forthwith cut a small pole, and from the hidden recess of his coat produced a line with a float and hook. Having rigged me out, he proceeded to unscrew the ferrule of his cane, and lo! the inseparable walking stick was transformed into a rod; his own manufacture, he said, as he held it out with the air of a critic and pardonable self-complacency. The recesses of his coat were again resorted to, resulting in a tin mustard box well filled with angle worms. Baiting my hook, he stationed me on a large rock and directed me to drop the lure into the gentle eddy beneath. That float, I remember, was painted red on the top, and looked to me like a highly colored bird’s egg drifting out of its element. Being informed that to watch it was my business, I did so with assiduity. Presently it bobbed up and down, then fell over on its side, then again bobbed up and down as though it were sentient and in sound of a fiddle exuding a hornpipe. I inquired of Mr. Doe the meaning of this, and was admonished by him to “look out,” that I had a nibble. Of all things desirable to me at that crisis, next to a bite, was a nibble. There was contained in it a fund of encouragement absolutely infinite, that left hope in the distance and resolved itself at once into faith.
“Now, jerk!” exclaimed Mr. Doe, as the float started off rapidly and suddenly disappeared. I jerked. And behold! a bit of burnished silver but little longer than my hand, its dorsal as suddenly expanded as if moved by electricity, standing stiff and defiant upon the sudden change of elements, only a shade duller than the sun’s rays, as it flashed into the light,—any first white perch, and my initial piscatorial triumph. Proud! The result of the accomplished details of section two of article two of our glorious bulwark announced to the fortunate choice of the majority of the unsoaped out of the seventeen millions and odd of the free and enlightened, placed him upon no loftier ground; I would have patronized His Excellency at that sublime moment.
“It was born in you,” said Mr. Doe, as he relieved the captive and placed him in my outstretched hands. My perception of Mr. Doe’s meaning was intuitive, and I suggested that I would like conviction impressed upon the mind of my other best friend by a personal examination of this peerless perch. Nothing could be more easily accomplished; it was slipped on a stout string and consigned to an isolated pool. During the ensuing hour my attention was divided between the jail of my captive, the red-top cork and the actions of Mr. Doe; that gentleman had stationed himself a few yards below me, and had secured quite a respectable string of perch, while I had added several, beside two tobacco-boxes, to my own.
At lunch it dawned upon me to inquire of Mr. Doe if he did not think it wicked to fish on the Sabbath. My recollection is that he felt loth to set himself up as a judge in the matter. But the leaping stream, the picturesque rocks, the trees and sweet air had attractions for him, and he could enjoy them but one day in seven; for those who had nothing else to do the case might be different; he thought that perhaps education had much to do with the matter—“One man esteemeth one day above another; another esteemeth every day alike. Let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind;” said Mr. Doe.
Somehow it crept into my youthful imagination, as I listened to him, that the beautiful river, the rocks and the trees, had been created for him, but that he claimed no monopoly. Yet no rich man could purchase them nor deprive him of his property; that for this he was thankful, and entertained for the philanthropic Creator of these the same sort of reverence, but in a new and quiet way, that I had been accustomed to hear must, to be acceptable, be expressed within doors. And I wondered, if he should be so unfortunate as to die then and there, whether he would go to heaven. My doubts as to myself, and the propriety of my participation in his peculiar worship were grave in the extreme.
The doubts, however, did not prevent my renewing the fascinating occupation of the forenoon, and thereby adding a few more victims to my already questionable spoils.
The shadows began to lengthen and grow quite grotesque is their attenuation, before I inquired of Mr. Doe as to his intentions about returning. He gave as his reason for not going sooner that he deferred to the prejudices of others to the extent of avoiding any aggressive expression of his own opinions, by trailing his fish through town in daylight. That while he saw no impropriety in passing the Sabbath out-doors in the fresh air and sunlight, there were those who would be shocked at what they deemed a desecration. He felt responsible to a higher authority for his acts, and would render his accounts at the proper forum in due course of time. Meanwhile he proposed to follow the admonition of the great apostle: “If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men.” Upon this he transformed his rod again into a walking stick, carefully stowed away the lines, and threw the remaining bait into the stream; we gathered up what had been vouchsafed us and started for home.
Tho condition of Mr. Doe’s mind was unquestionably tranquil, while mine was incumbered with doubts, yet devoid of apprehension, in the matter of serious consequences, at least. Our walk home was accomplished satisfactorily, the latter part of it being in the dark through the neighborhoods where we were best known, the twilight being short in that latitude and gas then only a possibility. He who had given me permission to go walking expressed severe astonishment at the evidences of the day’s doings presented to him. Mr. Doe was not a large man, but his shoulders were broad; he improved upon our original ancestor by assuming the responsibility. My enthusiastic portrayal of the delights experienced were listened to, I thought, with interest; I did not go supperless to bed, and I had some of the fish for breakfast. The diet was no novelty, but the flavor upon that occasion far surpassed that of any former experience, and no fish since has tasted so sweet as that first perch. The burnished silver tint had given way to an exquisite brown, delicate as the hue of an amber cloud painted by the evening rays of an autumn sun. Crisp, and with a fragrance to subdue the censorious palate of an epicure, he invited me to remove his dorsal, and lay bare in equal halves the firm, white meat; next, without a hair’s-breadth torn, the backbone cleaved as smoothly as a type from its matrix, and appetite and palate joined in adulation. I would cherish the memory tenderly, but, above all, the text and sermon of Mr. Doe.