I
A Placid Runaway
Jonathan and I differ about a great many things; how otherwise are we to avoid the sloughs of bigoted self-satisfaction? But upon one point we agree: we are both convinced that on a beautiful morning in April or May or June there is just one thing that any right-minded person really wants to do. That is to turn a deaf ear to duty and a blind eye to all other pleasures, and—find a trout brook. We are, indeed, able to understand that duty may be too much for him—may be quite indifferent to his deaf ear and shout in the other, or may even seize him by the shoulders and hold him firmly in his place. He may not be able so much as to drop a line in the brown water all through the maddening spring days. But that he should not want to—ache to—this we cannot understand. We do know that it is not a thing to be argued about. It is temperamental, it is in the blood, or it is not. Jonathan and I always want to.
Once it was almost the end of April, and we had been wanting to ever since March had gone out like a lion—for in some parts of New England a jocose legislature has arranged that the trout season shall begin on April Fool's Day. Those who try to catch trout on April first understand the joke.
"Jonathan," I said over our coffee, "have you noticed the weather to-day?"
"Um-m-pleasant day," he murmured abstractedly from behind his newspaper.
"Pleasant! Have you felt the sunshine? Have you smelt the spring mud? I want to roll in it!"
Jonathan really looked up over his paper. "Do!" he said, benevolently.
"Jonathan, let's run away!"