Coffeebreak007 islandpool bm
the island pool the island pool the island pool from little rivers a book of essays in profitable idleness by henry van dyke librivox coffee break collection number seven among the mountains there is a gorge and in the gorge there is a river and in the river there is a pool and in the pool there is an island and on the island for four happy days there was a camp it was by no means an easy matter to establish ourselves in that lonely place the river though not remote from civilization is practically inaccessible for nine miles of its course by reason of the steepness of its banks
which are long shaggy precipices and the fury of its current in which no boat can live we heard its voice as we approached through the forest and could hardly tell whether it was far away or near there is a perspective of sound as well as of sight and one must have some idea of the size of a noise before one can judge of its distance a mosquito's horn in a dark room may seem like a trumpet on the battlements and the tumult of a mighty stream heard through an unknown stretch of woods may appear like the babble of a mountain brook close at hand but when we came out upon the bald forehead of a burnt cliff and looked down we realized the grandeur and beauty of the unseen voice that we had been following a river of splendid strength went leaping through the chasm five hundred feet below us and at the foot of two snow-white falls
in an oval of dark topaz water traced with curves of floating foam lay the solitary island the broken path was like a ladder how shall we ever get down sighed graygown as we dropped from rock to rock and at the bottom she looked up sighing i know we never can get back again there was not a foot of ground on the shores level enough for a tent our canoe ferried us over two at a time to the island it was about a hundred paces long composed of round coggly stones with just one patch of smooth sand at the lower end there was not a tree left upon it larger than an alder-bush the tent poles must be cut far up on the mountain sides and every bow for our beds must be carried down the ladder of rocks but the men were gay at their work singing like mockingbirds
after all the glow of life comes from friction with its difficulties if we cannot find them at home we sally abroad and create them just to warm up our metal the wananeesh in the island pool were superb astonishing incredible we stood on the cobblestones at the upper end and cast our little flies across the sweeping stream and for three days the fish came crowding in to fill the barrel of pickled salmon for our guide's winter use and the score rose twelve twenty one thirty two and the size of the biggest fish steadily mounted four pounds four and a half five five and three quarters precisely almost six pounds said ferdinand holding the scales but we may call him six monsieur for if it had been to-morrow that we had caught him he would certainly have gained the other ounce and yet why should i repeat the fisherman's folly of writing down the record of that marvelous catch
we always do it but we know that it is a vain thing few listen to the tale and none accept it does not christopher north reviewing the simonia of sir humphrey davy mock and jeer unfeignedly at the fish stories of that most reputable writer but on the very next page old christopher himself meanders on into a perilous narrative of the day when he caught a whole cart-load of trout in a highland loch incorrigible happy inconsistency slow to believe others and full of sceptical inquiry fond man never doubts one thing that somewhere in the world a tribe of gentle readers will be discovered to whom his fish stories will appear credible one of our days on the island was sunday a day of rest and a week of idleness we had a few books for there are some in existence which will stand the test of being brought into close contact with nature
are not john burroughs cheerful kindly essays full of woodland truth and companionship can you not carry a whole library of musical philosophy in your pocket in matthew arnold's volume of selections from wordsworth and could there be a better sermon for a sabbath in the wilderness than mrs lawson's immortal story of fishin jimmy but to be very frank about the matter the camp is not stimulating to the studious side of my mind charles lamb as usual has said what i feel i am not much a friend to out-of-doors reading i cannot settle my spirits to it there are blueberries growing abundantly among the rocks huge clusters of them blooming and luscious as the grapes of eschol the blueberry is nature's compensation for the ruin of forest fires
it grows best where the woods have been burned away and the soil is too poor to raise another crop of trees surely it is an innocent and harmless pleasure to wander along the hillsides gathering these wild fruits as the master and his disciples once walked through the fields and plucked the ears of corn never caring what the pharisees thought of that new way of keeping the sabbath and here is a bed of moss beside a dashing rivulet inviting us to rest and be thankful hark there is a white-throated sparrow on a little tree across the river whistling his afternoon song in linked sweetness long drawn out down in maine they call him the peabody bird because his notes sound to them like old man peabody peabody peabody in new brunswick the scotch settlers say that he sings lost lost kennedy kennedy kennedy but here in his northern home i think we can understand him better he is singing again and again with a cadence that never wearies sweet sweet canada canada canada
the canadians when they came across the sea remembering the nightingale of southern france baptized this little gray minstrel their rossignol and the country ballads are full of his praise every land has its nightingale if we only have the heart to hear him how distinct his voice is how personal how confidential as if he had a message for us there is a breath of fragrance on the cool shady air beside our little stream that seems familiar it is the first week of september can it be that the twin flower of june the delicate linnia borealis is blooming again yes here is the thread-like stem lifting its two frail pink bells above the bed of shining leaves how dear an early flower seems when it comes back again and unfolds its beauty in a st martin's summer
how delicate and suggestive is the faint magical odor it is like a renewal of the dreams of youth and need we ever grow old asked my lady graygown as she sat that evening with the twin flower on her breast watching the stars come out along the edge of the cliffs and tremble on the hurrying tide of the river must we grow old as well as gray is the time coming when all life will be commonplace and practical and governed by a dull of course shall we not always find adventures and romances and a few blossoms returning even when the season grows late at least i answered let us believe in the possibility for to doubt it is to destroy it if we can only come back to nature together
every year and consider the flowers and the birds and confess our faults and mistakes and our unbelief under these silent stars and hear the river murmuring our absolution we shall die young even though we live long we shall have a treasure of memories which will be like the twin flower always a double blossom on a single stem and carry with us into the unseen world something which will make it worth while to be immortal eighteen ninety four end of the island pool by henry van dyke recording by bill nosley bernardo texas u s a
