Fisherman's Luck and Some Other Uncertain Things. Henry Van Dyke

tion>

       Henry Van Dyke

      Fisherman's Luck and Some Other Uncertain Things

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4064066229016

Table of Contents

       FISHERMAN'S LUCK

       THE THRILLING MOMENT

       TALKABILITY

       A PRELUDE AND THEME WITH VARIATIONS

       I. PRELUDE—ON AN OLD, FOOLISH MAXIM

       II. THEME—ON A SMALL, USEFUL VIRTUE

       III. VARIATIONS—ON A PLEASANT PHRASE FROM MONTAIGNE

       A WILD STRAWBERRY

       LOVERS AND LANDSCAPE

       A FATAL SUCCESS

       A NORWEGIAN HONEYMOON

       WHO OWNS THE MOUNTAINS?

       A LAZY, IDLE BROOK

       I. A CASUAL INTRODUCTION

       II. A BETTER ACQUAINTANCE

       III. THE SECRETS OF INTIMACY

       THE OPEN FIRE

       I. LIGHTING UP

       II. THE CAMP-FIRE

       III. THE COOKING-FIRE

       IV. THE SMUDGE-FIRE

       V. THE LITTLE FRIENDSHIP-FIRE

       VI. ALTARS OF REMEMBRANCE

       A SLUMBER SONG FOR THE FISHERMAN'S CHILD

FISHERMAN'S LUCK

       Table of Contents

      Has it ever fallen in your way to notice the quality of the greetings that belong to certain occupations?

      There is something about these salutations in kind which is singularly taking and grateful to the ear. They are as much better than an ordinary "good day" or a flat "how are you?" as a folk-song of Scotland or the Tyrol is better than the futile love-ditty of the drawing-room. They have a spicy and rememberable flavour. They speak to the imagination and point the way to treasure-trove.

      There is a touch of dignity in them, too, for all they are so free and easy—the dignity of independence, the native spirit of one who takes for granted that his mode of living has a right to make its own forms of speech. I admire a man who does not hesitate to salute the world in the dialect of his calling.

      How salty and stimulating, for example, is the sailorman's hail of "Ship ahoy!" It is like a breeze laden with briny odours and a pleasant dash of spray. The miners in some parts of Germany have a good greeting for their dusky trade. They cry to one who is going down the shaft, "Gluck auf!" All the perils of an underground adventure and all the joys of seeing the sun again are compressed into a word. Even the trivial salutation which the telephone has lately created and claimed for its peculiar use—"Hello, hello"—seems to me to have a kind of fitness and fascination. It is like a thoroughbred bulldog, ugly enough to be attractive. There is a lively, concentrated, electric air about it. It makes courtesy wait upon dispatch, and reminds us that we live in an age when it is necessary to be wide awake.

      I have often wished that every human employment might evolve its own appropriate greeting. Some of them would be queer, no doubt; but at least they would be an improvement on the wearisome iteration of "Good-evening" and "Good-morning," and the monotonous inquiry, "How do you do?"—a question so meaningless that it seldom tarries for an answer. Under the new and more natural system of etiquette, when you passed the time of day with a man you would know his business, and the salutations of the market-place would be full of interest.

      As for my chosen pursuit of angling (which I follow with diligence when not interrupted by less important concerns), I rejoice with every true fisherman that it has a greeting all its own and of a most honourable antiquity. There is no written record of its origin. But it is quite certain that since the days after the Flood, when Deucalion

      "Did first this art invent

       Of angling, and his people taught the same,"

      two honest and good-natured anglers have never met each other by the way without crying out, "What luck?"

      Here, indeed, is an epitome of the gentle art. Here is the spirit of it embodied in a word and paying its respects to you with its native accent. Here you see its secret charms unconsciously disclosed. The attraction of angling for all the ages of man, from the cradle to the grave, lies in its uncertainty. 'Tis an affair of luck.

      No amount of preparation in the matter of rods and lines and hooks and lures and nets and creels can change its essential character. No excellence of skill in casting the delusive fly or adjusting the tempting bait upon the hook can make the result secure. You may reduce the chances, but you cannot eliminate them. There are a thousand points at which fortune may intervene. The state of the weather, the height of the water, the appetite of the fish, the presence or absence of other anglers—all these indeterminable elements enter into the reckoning of your success. There is no combination of stars in the firmament by which you can forecast the piscatorial future. When you go a-fishing, you just take your chances; you offer yourself as a candidate for anything that may be going; you try your luck.

      There are certain days that are favourites among anglers, who regard them as propitious for the sport. I know a man who believes that the fish always rise better on Sunday than on any other day in the week. He complains bitterly of this