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Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
124
The
thing
is
still
unsettled.
Billy,
of
course,
is
only
one
of
thousands
that
have
got
this
mania.
And
the
autumn
is
the
time
when
it
rages
at
its
worst.
Every
day
there
move
northward
trains,
packed
full
of
lawyers,
bankers,
and
brokers,
headed
for
the
bush.
They
are
dressed
up
to
look
like
pirates.
They
wear
slouch
hats,
flannel
shirts,
and
leather
breeches
with
belts.
They
could
afford
much
better
clothes
than
these,
but
they
won't
use
them.
I
don't
know
where
they
get
these
clothes.
I
think
the
railroad
lends
them
out.
They
have
guns
between
their
knees
and
big
knives
at
their
hips.
They
smoke
the
worst
tobacco
they
can
find,
and
they
carry
ten
gallons
of
alcohol
per
man
in
the
baggage
car.
In
the
intervals
of
telling
lies
to
one
another
they
read
the
railroad
pamphlets
about
hunting.
This
kind
of
literature
is
deliberately
and
fiendishly
contrived
to
infuriate
their
mania.
I
know
all
about
these
pamphlets
because
I
write
them.
I
once,
for
instance,
wrote
up,
from
imagination,
a
little
place
called
Dog
Lake
at
the
end
of
a
branch
line.
The
place
had
failed
as
a
settlement,
and
the
railroad
had
decided
to
turn
it
into
a
hunting
resort.
I
did
the
turning.
I
think
I
did
it
rather
well,
rechristening
the
lake
and
stocking
the
place
with
suitable
varieties
of
game.
The
pamphlet
ran
like
this.
"The
limpid
waters
of
Lake
Owatawetness
(the
name,
according
to
the
old
Indian
legends
of
the
place,
signifies,
The
Mirror
of
the
Almighty)
abound
with
every
known
variety
of
fish.
Near
to
its
surface,
so
close
that
the
angler
may
reach
out
his
hand
and
stroke
them,
schools
of
pike,
pickerel,
mackerel,
doggerel,
and
chickerel
jostle
one
another
in
the
water.
They
rise
instantaneously
to
the
bait
and
swim
gratefully
ashore
holding
it
in
their
mouths.
In
the
middle
depth
of
the
waters
of
the
lake,
the
sardine,
the
lobster,
the
kippered
herring,
the
anchovy
and
other
tinned
varieties
of
fish
disport
themselves
with
evident
gratification,
while
even
lower
in
the
pellucid
depths
the
dog-fish,
the
hog-fish,
the
log-fish,
and
the
sword-fish
whirl
about
in
never-ending
circles.
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