IN THE TOADFISH’S SHOE
I was winding up my summer vacation with a little fishing party all by
myself, on a wharf whose piles stood deep in the swirling waters from
Buzzards Bay. My heavy-leaded line hummed taut in the swift current;
my legs hung limp above the water; my back rested comfortably against
a great timber that was warm in the September sun. Exciting? Of course
not. Fishing is fishing--any kind of fishing is fishing to me. But the
kind I am most used to, and the kind I like best, is from the edge of
a wharf, where my feet dangle over, where my “throw-out” line hums
taut over my finger, in a tide that runs swift and deep and dark below
me.
For what may you not catch in such dark waters? And when there are no
“bites,” you can sit and wait; and I think that sitting and waiting
with my back against a big warm timber is just as much fun now as it
used to be when I was a boy.
But after all it is fish that you want when you go fishing; and it is
exciting, moreover, just to sit as I was sitting on the wharf, with
all the nerves of your body concentrated in the tip of your right
forefinger, under the pressure of your line. For how do you know but
that the next instant you may get a bite? And how do you know what the
fish may be?
When you whip a trout stream for trout--why, you expect trout; when
you troll a pond for pickerel, you expect pickerel; but when you sit
on a wharf with your line far out in big, deep waters--why, you can
expect almost anything--except shoes!
Shoes? Yes, old shoes!
As I sat there on the wharf of Buzzards Bay, there was suddenly a
sharp tug at my line. A short quick snap, and I hooked him, and began
quickly hauling him in.
How heavily he came! How dead and stupid! Even a flounder or a cod
would show more fight than this; and very naturally, for on the end of
my line hung an old shoe!
“Well,” I thought, “I have fished for soles, and down on the Savannah
I have fished for ’gators, but I never fished for shoes before”; and
taking hold of my big fish (for it must have been a No. 12 shoe), I
was about to feel for the hook when I heard a strange grunting noise
inside, and nearly tumbled overboard at sight of two big eyes and a
monstrous head filling the whole inside of the shoe!
“In the name of Davy Jones!” I yelled, flinging line and shoe and
_thing_ (whatever it might be) far behind me, “I’ve caught the Old Man
of the Sea with his shoe on!” And, scrambling to my feet, I hurried
across the wharf to see if it really were a fish that now lay flapping
close beside the shoe.
It was really a fish; but it was also a hobgoblin, nightmare, and
ooze-croaker!--if you know what that is!
I had never seen a live toadfish before, and it is small wonder that I
sighed with relief to see that he had unhooked himself; for he looked
not only uncanny, but also dangerous! He was slimy all over, with a
tremendous head and a more tremendous mouth (if that could be), with
jaws studded on the inside with rows of sharp teeth, and fringed on
the outside with folds of loose skin and tentacles. Great glaring eyes
stared at me, with ragged bits of skin hanging in a ring about them.
Ugly? Oh, worse than ugly? Two thirds of the monster was head; the
rest, a weak, shapeless, slimy something with fins and tail, giving
the creature the appearance of one whose brain had grown at the
expense of the rest of his body, making him only a kind of living
head.
I looked at him. He looked at me, and croaked.
“I don’t understand you,” said I, and he croaked again. “But you are
alive,” said I; “and God made you, and therefore you ought not to look
so ugly to me,” and he flapped in the burning sun and croaked again.
Stooping quickly, I seized him, crowded him back into the old shoe,
and dipped him under water. He gasped with new life and croaked again.
“Now,” said I, “I begin to understand you. That croak means that you
are glad to taste salt water again”; and he croaked again, and I
dipped him in again.
Then I looked him over thoughtfully. He was about fifteen inches long,
brown in color, and coarsely marbled with a darker hue, which ran
along the fins in irregular wavy lines.
“You are odd, certainly, and peculiar, and altogether homely,” said I;
“but really you are not very ugly. Ugly? No, you are _not_ ugly. How
could anybody be ugly with a countenance so wise and learned?--so
thoughtful and meditative?” And the toadfish croaked and croaked
again. And I dipped him in again, and understood him better, and liked
him better all the time.
Then I took him in his shoe to the edge of the wharf.
“I am glad to have made your acquaintance, sir,” said I. “If I come
this way next summer, I shall look you up; for I want to know more
about you. Good-by.” And I heard him croak “Good-by,” as he and his
shoe went sailing out and dropped with a splash into the deep dark
water of the Bay.
[Illustration: “HERE I FOUND HIM KEEPING HOUSE”]
I meant what I said, and the next summer, along the shores of the Bay
I hunted him up. He was not in an old shoe this time, but under
certain rather large stones that lay just below ebb-tide mark, so that
they were usually, though not always, covered with water. Here I found
him keeping house; and as I was about to keep house myself, my heart
really warmed to him.
I was understanding him more and more, and so I was liking him better
and better. Ugly? Wait until I tell you what the dear fellow was
doing.
He was keeping house, and he was keeping it all alone! Now listen, for
this is what I learned that summer about the strange habits of Mrs.
Toadfish, and the handsome behavior of her husband.
It is along in June that the toadfish of our New England bays begin to
look round for their summer homes. As far as we now know, it is the
female who makes the choice and leaves her future mate to find her and
her home. A rock is usually chosen, always in shallow water, and
sometimes so far up on the shore that at low tide it is left high and
almost dry. The rock may vary in size from one as small as your hat up
to the very largest.
Having selected the place for her nest, she digs a pathway down under
the rock, and from beneath scoops out a hollow quite large enough to
swim round in. This completes the nest, or more properly burrow, in
which her little toadfish babies are to be reared.
She now begins to lay the eggs, but not in the sand, as one would
suppose; she deliberately pastes them on the under surface of the
rock. Just how she does this no one knows.
The eggs are covered with a clear, sticky paste which hardens in
contact with water, and is the means by which the mother sticks them
fast to the rock. This she must do while swimming on her back,
fastening one egg at a time, each close beside its neighbor in regular
order, till all the cleared surface of the rock is covered with
hundreds of beautiful amber eggs, like drops of pure, clear honey.
The eggs are about the size of buckshot; and, curiously enough, when
they hatch, the young come out with their heads all turned in the same
direction. Does the mother know which is the head end of the egg? Or
has some strange power drawn them around? Or do they turn themselves
for some reason?
It will be noticed, in lifting up the rocks, that the heads of the
fish are always turned toward the entrance to their nest, through
which the light and fresh water come; and it is quite easy to see that
these two important things have much to do with the direction in which
the little fish are turned.
After Mrs. Fish has finished laying her eggs, her maternal cares are
over. She leaves both eggs and cares to the keeping of Mr. Fish, swims
off, and crawls into a tin can--or old shoe!--to meditate in sober
satisfaction for the rest of the summer.
So it was _she_ that I caught, and not the gallant Mr. Toadfish at
all! I am glad of it. I have a deal of sympathy and down-right
admiration for Mr. Fish. He behaves most handsomely.
However, Mrs. Fish is very wise, and could not leave her treasures in
better keeping. If ever there was a faithful parent, it is a Father
Toadfish. For three weeks he guards the eggs before they hatch out,
and then they are only half hatched; for it has taken the little fish
all this time to get out on the top side of the eggs, to which they
are still attached by their middles, so that they can move only their
heads and tails.
They continue to wiggle in this fashion for some weeks, until the yolk
of the egg is absorbed, and they have grown to be nearly half an inch
long. They are then free from the rock and swim off, looking as much
like their parents as children can, and every bit as ugly.
Ugly? Did I say ugly? Is a baby ever ugly to its mother? Or a baby
toadfish to its father? No. You cannot love a baby and at the same
time see it ugly. You cannot love the out of doors with all your
_mind_ as well as with all your heart, and ever see it ugly.
All this time the father has been guarding the little toadfish; and
if, during the whole period, he goes out to get a meal, I have not
been able to find when it is, for I always find him at home, minding
the babies.
The toadfish lives entirely unmolested by enemies, so far as I can
learn; and his appearance easily explains the reason of it. I know of
nothing that would willingly enter a croaking, snapping, slimy
toadfish’s nest to eat him; and it takes some courage to put one’s
hand into his dark hole and pull him out.
His principal diet seems to be shrimp, worms and all kinds of small
fish. Yet he may be said to have no principal diet; for, no matter
what you are fishing for, or what kind of bait you are using, if there
is a toadfish in the vicinity you are sure to catch him. If fishing
along a wharf in September, you may catch the fish, and an old shoe
along with him--with _her_, perhaps I should say.
And if you do, please notice how wise and thoughtful the face, how
beautifully marbled the skin, how courageous the big strong jaw!
Ugly? Not if you will put yourself in the toadfish’s shoe.