Identifier: westernfield61905olym (find matches)
Title: Western field
Year: 1902 (1900s)
Authors: Olympic Club (San Francisco, Calif.) California Game and Fish Protective Associations
Subjects: Olympic Club (San Francisco, Calif.) California Game and Fish Protectice Associations Sports
Publisher: San Francisco
Contributing Library: San Francisco Public Library
Digitizing Sponsor: San Francisco Public Library

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men;we could not keep up the grind for gold, forthe call of the wild is buried somewhere inevery mans soul, and it is he himself thatdrowns out its voice. Sometimes I wonder whatever became ofthose old twin oaks. Did they go the wayof all lumber—into the teeth of the whirling,flashing saws in the great mill down besidethe river? Ah, that river! How sweetlysoft and low the brooks sang to it as theypoured their tiny flood to swell its course.And how it took up their refrain, only mul-tiplying it a million times, until it becameone vast anthem telling of the peace andplenty it was bringing to the lands along itsflag-strewn shores. Then it, too, fell inwith a greater stream—the Father of Waters—and was merged with it. losing its identityin the great muddy tide, lost in the beating-surges of the Gulf a couple of thousandmiles away. Back of the old home, out of sight of theoaks that guarded me through boyhood, alittle brook drew itself lazily through the THE PACIFIC COAST MAGAZINE 363
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•THE DEEPER SONG OF THE ROLLING RIVER/ meadow, coming from a bubbling spring,so pure, so cold that the cattle could notdrink from the fountain-head even at mid-day, but went down a few rods to a placewhere the chill of the water was a bitbroken. Further down, almost a mile fromthe spring, the brook deepened, whirling inlittle eddies through the exposed roots ofmany an aged tree, forming here and therewide pools in which hordes of fish found arefuge from the hungry bass and pickerel ofthe river below. And here was given memy first lesson in fishing. Ah! Who is there that has lived the lifeof the brookside who does not rememberthe first time he ever dipped hook into theclear tide of some brook or river or evenlake. The pole my father cut for us thatafternoon was patterned to his hand ratherthan mine. It was at least eight feet long,a slender willow, and I who was barely tenyears old could no more guide its wabblingtip than I could have guided the pair of coal-black colts that watched

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