Opening the text

Library of the best American literature: Containing the lives of our authors in story form, their portraits, their homes, and their personal traits, how they worked and what they wrote; choice selections from eminent writers, embracing great American poets and novelists, foremost women in American letters, distinguished critics and essayists, our national humorists, noted journalists and magazine contributors, popular writers for young people, great orators and public lecturers

General

Library of the best American literature: Containing the lives of our authors in story form, their portraits, their homes, and their personal traits, how they worked and what they wrote; choice selections from eminent writers, embracing great American poets and novelists, foremost women in American letters, distinguished critics and essayists, our national humorists, noted journalists and magazine contributors, popular writers for young people, great orators and public lecturers

American literature

“Perhaps he will by and by,” suggests Halicarnassus encouragingly.
Five minutes more. Arms breaking. Knees trembling. Pebble shaky. Brain
dizzy. Everything seems to be sailing down stream. Tempted to give it
up, but look at the empty basket, think of the expectant party, and
the eight cod-fish, and possess my soul in patience.

“Bite?” comes the distant voice of Halicarnassus, disappearing by a
bend in the river.

“No!” I moan, trying to stand on one foot to rest the other, and
ending by standing on neither; for the pebble quivers, convulses, and
finally rolls over and expires; and only a vigorous leap and a sudden
conversion of the fishing-rod into a balancing-pole save me from an
ignominious bath. Weary of the world, and lost to shame, I gather all
my remaining strength, wind the line about the rod, poise it on high,
hurl it out in the deepest and most unobstructed part of the stream,
* * * lie down upon the rock, pull my hat over my face, and dream, to
the furling of the river, the singing of the birds, and the music of
the wind in the trees, of another river, far, far, away.

                   *       *       *       *       *

“Hullo! how many?”

I start up wildly, and knock my hat off into the water. Jump after
it, at the imminent risk of going in myself, catch it by one of the
strings, and stare at Halicarnassus.

“Asleep, I fancy?” says Halicarnassus, interrogatively.

                   *       *       *       *       *

We walk silently towards the woods. We meet a small boy with a tin pan
and thirty-six fishes in it. We accost him.

“Are these fishes for sale?” asks Halicarnassus.

“Bet they be!” says small boy with energy.

Halicarnassus looks meaningly at me. I look meaningly at Halicarnassus,
and both look meaningly at our empty basket. “Won’t you tell?” says
Halicarnassus. “No; won’t you?” Halicarnassus whistles, the fishes are
transferred from pan to basket, and we walk away “chirp as a cricket,”
reach the sylvan party, and are speedily surrounded.

“O what beauties! Who caught them? How many are there?”

  Illustration: (‡ decoration)




  Illustration: (‡ decoration)


                   HELEN MARIA FISKE HUNT JACKSON.

                     “THE FRIEND OF THE RED MAN.”

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

Opening the text

General

Library of the best American literature: Containing the lives of our authors in story form, their portraits, their homes, and their personal traits, how they worked and what they wrote; choice selections from eminent writers, embracing great American poets and novelists, foremost women in American letters, distinguished critics and essayists, our national humorists, noted journalists and magazine contributors, popular writers for young people, great orators and public lecturers

American literature

“Perhaps he will by and by,” suggests Halicarnassus encouragingly.
Five minutes more. Arms breaking. Knees trembling. Pebble shaky. Brain
dizzy. Everything seems to be sailing down stream. Tempted to give it
up, but look at the empty basket, think of the expectant party, and
the eight cod-fish, and possess my soul in patience.

“Bite?” comes the distant voice of Halicarnassus, disappearing by a
bend in the river.

“No!” I moan, trying to stand on one foot to rest the other, and
ending by standing on neither; for the pebble quivers, convulses, and
finally rolls over and expires; and only a vigorous leap and a sudden
conversion of the fishing-rod into a balancing-pole save me from an
ignominious bath. Weary of the world, and lost to shame, I gather all
my remaining strength, wind the line about the rod, poise it on high,
hurl it out in the deepest and most unobstructed part of the stream,
* * * lie down upon the rock, pull my hat over my face, and dream, to
the furling of the river, the singing of the birds, and the music of
the wind in the trees, of another river, far, far, away.

                   *       *       *       *       *

“Hullo! how many?”

I start up wildly, and knock my hat off into the water. Jump after
it, at the imminent risk of going in myself, catch it by one of the
strings, and stare at Halicarnassus.

“Asleep, I fancy?” says Halicarnassus, interrogatively.

                   *       *       *       *       *

We walk silently towards the woods. We meet a small boy with a tin pan
and thirty-six fishes in it. We accost him.

“Are these fishes for sale?” asks Halicarnassus.

“Bet they be!” says small boy with energy.

Halicarnassus looks meaningly at me. I look meaningly at Halicarnassus,
and both look meaningly at our empty basket. “Won’t you tell?” says
Halicarnassus. “No; won’t you?” Halicarnassus whistles, the fishes are
transferred from pan to basket, and we walk away “chirp as a cricket,”
reach the sylvan party, and are speedily surrounded.

“O what beauties! Who caught them? How many are there?”

  Illustration: (‡ decoration)




  Illustration: (‡ decoration)


                   HELEN MARIA FISKE HUNT JACKSON.

                     “THE FRIEND OF THE RED MAN.”

Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.

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