Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Eagle Cliff by R. M. Ballantyne (good books to read for women .TXT) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «The Eagle Cliff by R. M. Ballantyne (good books to read for women .TXT) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
“An’ that’s what we have, sor; but the Irish pipes are soft, mellow, gentle things—like the Irish girls—not like them big Scotch bellows that screech for all the world like a thousand unwillin’ pigs bein’ forced to go to markit.”
“True, Quin; there’s something in that. Now then, both of you stand close to me—a little behind—so; it’s the safest place if you don’t want to be hooked, and be ready with the gaff, Junkie,” said the fisher, as he turned a critical eye on the water and made a fine cast over what he deemed the most likely part of the pool.
“Father never rose a fish there,” said Junkie, with a demure look.
The fisher paid no attention to the remark, but continued to cast a little lower down stream each time.
“You’re gettin’ near the bit now,” said Junkie, in the tone of one whose expectations are awakened.
“Th–there! That’s him!”
“Ay, and a good one, too,” exclaimed Jackman, as a fan-like tail disappeared with a heavy splash. Again the fisher cast, with the same result.
“He’s only playin’ wi’ the fly,” said Junkie in a tone of disappointment.
“That’s often the way—no!—th–there! Got ’im!”
The rod bent like a hoop at that moment; the reel spun round to its own merry music, as the line flew out, and the fish finished its first wild rush with a leap of three feet into the air.
“Hooray!” yelled Junkie, now fairly aflame, as he jumped like the fish, flourished the big hook round his head, and gaffed Quin by the lappet of his coat!
“Have a care, you spalpeen,” shouted the Irishman, grasping the excited youngster by the collar and disengaging himself from the hook. “Sure it might have been me nose as well as me coat, an’ a purty objec’ that would have made me!”
Junkie heeded not. When released he ran toward Jackman who was struggling skilfully with the fish.
“Don’t let him take you down the rapid,” he shouted. “There’s no good place for landin’ him there. Hold on, an’ bring ’im up if you can. Hi!”
This last exclamation was caused by another rush of the fish. Jackman had wound up his line as far as possible, and was in hopes of inducing the salmon to ascend the stream, for he had run perilously near to the head of the rapid against which the boy had just warned him. But to this the fish objected, and, finding that the fisher was obstinate, had, as we have said, made a sudden rush across the pool, causing the reel to spin furiously as the line ran out, and finishing off with another splendid jump.
“A few more bursts like that will soon exhaust him,” said Jackman, as he wound in the line again and drew the fish steadily towards him.
“Yes, but don’t let him go down,” said the boy earnestly.
It seemed almost as if the creature had heard the warning, for it turned at the moment and made a straight rush for the head of the rapid.
When a large salmon does this it is absolutely impossible to stop him. Only two courses are open to the fisher—either to hold on and let him break the tackle; or follow him as fast as possible. The former alternative, we need hardly say, is only adopted when following is impracticable or involves serious danger. In the present case it was neither impossible nor dangerous, but it was difficult; and the way in which Giles Jackman went after that fish, staggering among pebbles, leaping obstructions, crashing through bushes and bounding over boulders, causing Quin to hold his sides with laughter, and little Junkie to stand transfixed and staring with admiration, was indescribable.
For Junkie had only seen his old father in such circumstances, and sometimes the heavy, rather clumsy, though powerful Ivor Donaldson. He had not till that day seen—much less imagined—what were the capacities of an Indian “Woods and Forester” of athletic build, superb training, and fresh from his native jungles!
“I say! what a jumper he is!” exclaimed Junkie, recovering presence of mind and dashing after him.
The rapid was a short though rough one. The chief danger was that the line might be cut among the foam-covered rocks, or that the hook, if not firmly fixed, might tear itself away; also that the fisher might fall, which would probably be fatal to rod or line, to say nothing of elbows and shins.
But Jackman came triumphantly out of it all. The salmon shot into the pool below the rapid, and turned into the eddy to rest. The fisher, at the same moment, bounded on to a strip of sand there—minus only hat and wind—and proceeded to reel in the line for the next burst.
But another burst did not occur, for the fish was by that time pretty well exhausted, and took to what is styled sulking; that is, lying at the bottom of a hole with its nose, probably, under a stone. While in this position a fish may recover strength to renew the battle. It is therefore advisable, if possible, to drive him or haul him out of his refuge by all or any means. A small fish may be hauled out if the tackle be strong, but this method is not possible with a heavy one such as that which Jackman had hooked.
“What’s to be done now, Junkie?” he said, after one or two vain efforts to move the fish.
“Bomb stones at him,” said the urchin, without a moment’s hesitation.
“Bomb away then, my boy!”
Junkie at once sent several large stones whizzing into the pool. The result was that the salmon made another dash for life, but gave in almost immediately, and came to the surface on its side. The battle is usually about ended when this takes place, though not invariably so, for lively fish sometimes recover sufficiently to make a final effort. In this case, however, it was the close of the fight. Slowly and carefully the fisher drew the fish towards the shelving bank, where Junkie stood ready with the gaff. Another moment, and the boy bounded into the water, stuck the hook into the salmon’s shoulder, and laid it like a bar of glittering silver on the bank.
“A twenty-pounder,” said Junkie, with critical gravity.
“Twinty an’ three-quarters,” said Quin, as he weighed it.
“And a good job, too,” returned the practical urchin; “for I heard mother say we’d have no fish for dinner to-morrow if somebody didn’t catch something.”
There was a glass conservatory in one corner of the garden at Kinlossie House, to which the laird was wont to retire regularly for the enjoyment of a pipe every morning after breakfast. In this retreat, which was rich in hot-house plants, he was frequently joined by one or more of the members of his family, and sometimes by the friends who chanced to be staying with him. Thither John Barret got into the way of going—partly for the sake of a chat with the old man, of whom he soon became very fond, and partly for the sake of the plants, in which he was scientifically interested, botany being, as Mabberly said, his peculiar weakness.
One morning—and a gloriously bright morning it was, such as induces one to thank God for the gift of sunshine and the capacity of enjoying it—John Barret sauntered down to the garden, after breakfast, to have a quiet chat with his host. He had decided to remain at home that morning for the purpose of writing a letter or two, intending in the afternoon to follow up some of his companions, who had gone off to the hills.
Entering the conservatory, he found that the laird was not there; but, in his usual rustic chair, there sat a beautiful girl, sound asleep, with her fair cheek resting on her little hand, and her nut-brown hair straggling luxuriantly over her shoulders.
Barret was spell-bound. He could not move for a few seconds. Surprise may have had something to do with the sudden paralysis of his powers. It may have been curiosity, possibly admiration, certainly some sort of sensation that he could neither describe nor account for. He knew at a glance who the girl was, though he had not seen her since the day of her accident. Even if he had been so obtuse as not to know, the arm in a sling would have revealed that it was Milly Moss who slumbered there; yet he found it hard to believe that the neat little woman, with the lovely, benignant countenance before him was in very truth the dishevelled, dusty, scratched, and blood-sprinkled being whom he had carried for several miles over the heather a short time before.
As we have said, Barret stood immovable, not knowing very well what to do. Then it occurred to him that it was scarcely gallant or fair thus to take advantage of a sleeping beauty. Staring at her was bad enough, but to awake her would be still worse; so he turned slowly about, as a cat turns when afraid of being pounced on by a glaring adversary. He would retire on tiptoe as softly as possible, so as not to disturb her. In carrying out this considerate intention, he swept a flower-pot off its stand, which fell with a mighty crash upon the stone floor.
The poor youth clasped his hands, and glanced back over his shoulder in horror. The startled Milly was gazing at him with mingled surprise and alarm, which changed, however, into a flush and a look of restrained laughter as she began to understand the situation.
“Never mind, Mr Barret,” she said, rising, and coming forward with a gracious manner. “It is only one of the commonest plants we have. There are plenty more of them. You came, I suppose, in search of my uncle? Excuse my left hand; the right, as you see, is not yet fit for duty.”
“I did indeed come here in search of Mr Gordon,” said Barret, recovering himself; “but permit me to lead you back to the chair; your strength has not quite returned yet, I see.”
He was right. Although Milly had recovered much more rapidly than the doctor had expected, she could not stand much excitement, and the shock given by the breaking flower-pot, coupled, perhaps, with the unexpected meeting with the man who had rescued her from what might well have caused her death, somewhat overcame her.
“Excuse me,” she said, with a fluttering sigh, as she sank down into the rustic chair, “I do feel rather faint. It does seem so strange! I—I suppose it is because I have had no experience of anything but robust health all my life till now. There—I feel better. Will you kindly fetch me a glass of water? You will find a cistern with a tumbler beside it outside.”
The youth hurried out, and, on returning with the glass, found that the deadly pallor of the girl’s face had passed away, and was replaced by a tint that might have made the blush rose envious.
“You must understand,” said Milly, setting down the glass, while Barret seated himself on a vacant flower-pot-stand beside her, “that this conservatory is a favourite haunt of mine, to which, before my accident, I have resorted every morning since I came here, in order to sit with Uncle Allan. The doctor thought me so much better this morning that he gave me leave to recommence my visits. This is why I came; but I had totally forgotten that uncle had arranged to go out with the shooting party to-day, so I sat down to enjoy my favourite plants, and paid them the poor compliment of falling asleep, owing to weakness, I suppose. But how does it happen, Mr Barret, that you have been left behind? They gave me to understand that you are a keen sportsman.”
“They misled you, then, for I am but a poor sportsman, and by no means enthusiastic. Indeed, whether I go out with rod or gun,
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