Occasionally he would relinquish the rod, putting
it into my hands with a rare self-denial as we came to a promising
pool; but I was more deft at gathering bee-balm than taking trout,
and willingly spared the rod to the eager angler. And even he
secured only two troutling to carry back in his mint-lined creel.
"Trout streams gurgled about the roots of my family tree," he was
wont to say as he told of his grandfather Kelly's ardor for the
pastime. One day, in crossing the fields near the old home, he
showed me the stone wall where he and his grandfather tarried the
last time they went fishing together, he a boy of ten and his
grandfather past eighty. As they rested on the wall, the old man,
without noticing it, sat on the lad's hand as it lay on the wall.
"It hurt," Mr. Burroughs said, "but I didn't move till he got ready
to get up."
It was a great pleasure to go through the old sap bush with Mr.
Burroughs, for there he always lives over again the days in early
spring when sugar-making was in progress. He showed where some of
the old trees once stood,--the grandmother trees,--and mourned that
they were no more; but some of the mighty maples of his boyhood are
still standing, and each recalls youthful experiences. He sometimes
goes back there now in early spring to re-create the idyllic days.
Pages:
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228