A DAY'S SPORT ALONG THE BEECH FORK.
_Patter, patter, let it pour,
Patter, patter, let it roar;
O'er the housetop let it gush,
Down the hillside let it rush.
'Tis a welcome April shower,
And 'twill wake the sweet May flower._
Thus mused Owen as he sat late one afternoon husking corn, while the
pelting rain overhead recalled some old nursery rhymes which he had
learned by heart when a mere child. "No, it isn't April yet, and it will
be a long time before we have May flowers. It's about the middle of
March; I reckon the black-perch ought to bite now. It will be too wet to
plow this week; so I'll ask father to let Martin and me go a-fishing."
And he worked hard at his task to have the corn shelled before dark.
"Why, father, it's time to fish for black-perch," said he to Mr. Howard,
who appeared at the door of the corn crib.
"I reckon it's time for you to have that corn ready for the mill,"
replied the farmer.
"I'll finish it to-day, take it to the mill to-morrow--and then may
Martin and I go fishing on Thursday?" asked Owen.
"What about that field along the river to be plowed?" inquired the
farmer. "You are getting to be a big boy now, and must be prepared to do
your share of the work on the farm."
"Plow after this heavy rain?"
"Yes, when it is dry enough."
"But it won't be dry this week," argued Owen.
"Well, you may go fishing this week; that is, one day of this week. Then
be ready for hard work--no fishing, no hunting for some time."
Mr. Howard was more than willing to let his son enjoy a day along the
Beech Fork; still, it was evident from his way of speaking that he
intended to keep him busily engaged during the coming month while
getting the ground ready for the spring corn.
"Think you can go fishing to-morrow?" asked Owen of Martin on the
following day while on his way from the mill.
"I reckon I can. It's too wet to plow, and there's nothing else to be
done this time of the year."
"Better find out now."
"Father isn't here. It'll be all right; you can depend on me, and if
anything happens to keep me from going I'll ride over and let you know
to-night."
"Did you examine those reeds that we cut last fall?" asked Owen.
"No! haven't thought of them since."
"Well, I broke mine, and I'll have to depend on you for one."
"I can easily give you a dozen. We cut at least twenty-four, and half of
them belong to you. They are well seasoned, too--been hanging in the
barn for six months. I'll bring two along to-morrow, and you can get the
others the next time our wagon passes by your house."
The reeds referred to grew in patches along the Beech Fork. The boys
generally cut them in the fall to have them dry and seasoned for the
spring fishing.
"I must hurry on home and fix the minnow net," said Owen, starting off.
"Good-bye."
"I'll meet you at the creek."
Old Hickory trotted off with Owen and the sack of meal.
Uncle Pius had taught Owen and Martin how to fish for the black-bass (or
black-perch, as they are called in that section of the country) when the
boys were quite small. Under his direction they had become expert
fishermen. They knew nothing of the various contrivances described by
Irving in "The Angler," nor were they equipped like our modern fisherman
during his summer vacation--rods of split bamboo, patent reels and
landing nets would have appeared useless to them.
When first accompanying Uncle Pius on his fishing expeditions they were
surprised to find that he caught a perch every time he had a bite, while
they lost minnow after minnow.
"Uncle Pius, you've got a bite, you've got a bite!" they would often
exclaim, as his red-cedar float disappeared below the water. The old
negro, however, seemed to take no notice of their warning. He remained
motionless for a few seconds as if lost in deep thought, then gave a
quick jerk to fasten the hook, and landed his prize, much to the
admiration and astonishment of his young companions. One day the fish
were biting rapidly. Uncle Pius had secured a nice string, while Owen
and Martin had made their usual record--bite, bite, bite, but not a
fish.
"Uncle Pius," said Owen, "I am getting tired of this. I wish you'd show
us how to fish."
"Yes," chimed in Martin, "we've lost a bucketful of minnows and haven't
caught one perch."
"Well, Massar Ow'n and Massar Martin," said the grave old negro, laying
aside his reed and assuming an air of professional dignity, "dis am an
awful good proposishion (he meant occasion) for to larn how to ketch
perks, for dey's awful hungry to-day and is bitin' right smart--some
days dey bite right scattarin'. I would hab tole you long 'fore dis how
to fish, but I know'd you'd say dat you know'd all about fishin' before
this old niggar told you. Fust, you must know how to put the minnar on
de hook," he continued, taking a large shiner from the bucket and
baiting the hook with great care. "Run de hook right fru de lower
lip--see dar; den right fru the upper lip--see dar, just a little 'low
de eye--see dar; not too deep, or you'll kill the critter--see dar."
Uncle Pius handed the pole to Owen, told him to cast out near a fallen
tree, and not to pull until the perch started off with the line. Owen
had not to wait long for a bite. His float soon disappeared, and
although Uncle Pius yelled "let 'im go, chile," the young fisherman in
his excitement jerked with all his force, missed the fish, and entangled
his line among the branches overhead.
"You's always a-rushin'," expostulated the old negro.
While Owen climbed the tree to get the line, Martin took his lesson in
fishing, and was determined not to pull until Uncle Pius gave the
signal.
"How do you know when to pull?" he asked.
"Dar ain't no rule, Massar Martin; it kindar comes natu'al when one
knows how."
Soon the cedar float went under. It was evident from the rapidity with
which it disappeared that no small perch had bitten. The few brief
seconds that followed seemed an hour. Martin trembled with excitement;
still he waited for the word to pull.
"Dar's de time!" cried out Uncle Pius, as he saw the line stretch.
"I've got it, and a big one!" yelled Martin in triumph.
"Up here with it," shouted Owen from among the branches overhead.
"Keep the line a-stretchin'!" exclaimed Uncle Pius, "or he's a gonnar."
He had scarcely uttered these words when the fish leaped into the air,
shook the hook from its mouth, and disappeared into the water.
"Jes' as I'se sayin'," remarked the old negro. "Now, Massar Martin,
you've larned how to ketch perks, and you must larn how to lan' 'em."
"Is there anything to be learned about landing a perch?" inquired
Martin, with surprise. "When you catch a catfish there is no danger of
its getting off; in fact, you remember that we cut the heads off of
several to get out the hooks."
"Dar's an awful 'stonishin' dif'erens 'tween a catfish and a perk,"
interposed Uncle Pius. "It's hard to keep a perk on, an' it's hard to
get a catfish off. If ebbar you let de line slack de perk'll shake de
hook from his mouth in free shakes of a sheep's tail."
"Here it goes again," said Martin. "I'll not only catch the first perch
that bites, but will land it in a tip-top way."
From his position among the overhanging branches Owen watched Martin's
next attempt with interest, while Uncle Pius, conscious of the dignity
of his position, gravely directed the movements of his young disciple.
"Nebbar stop," said he. "Jest keep a-pullin' when you got him. Keep
a-pullin' slow, an' you'll fetch him, sure's de rain helps young corn."
Martin followed directions carefully, and succeeded in landing the next
perch.
"Hurrah!" he yelled in triumph, "that's a fine one, and here goes for
another."
Before Owen had time to climb down the tree and bait his hook Martin had
secured perch number two.
The two boys went to work in earnest, and, although many a perch escaped
from them, in less than an hour they had fully a dozen fish on their
string. Uncle Pius watched their progress with evident satisfaction, now
yelling to Martin "to keep de line a-pullin'," and to Owen "not to be
a-rushin'."
"Massar Martin and Massar Owen," he said to the boys when it was time to
go, "you know how to fish for perks, but don't forget dat dis ole niggar
larned you."
The first lesson of Uncle Pius was given some two years before our story
commenced. On the morning to which we referred in this chapter our two
young friends started out, not as tyros, but as experienced fishers.
On reaching the river the boys selected a spot near a fallen sycamore,
where the water was about four feet deep, and the bank around was rocky
and clear from all underbrush. This would enable them to land the perch
without fear of tangling their lines.
On the way to the river, however, they did not notice that a man was
following them for more than a mile through the forest, at times close
enough to overhear their conversation without any risk of being
discovered by them. It was Walter Stayford. He was evidently dogging
their footsteps with a purpose. The ground over which he passed was
certainly known to him, for even when he lost sight of the boys he
followed them as a hound follows a fresh trail.
When the boys came to the river he ensconced himself behind a fallen
log, where he could hear every word they uttered. What could be his
object in watching them so closely? He certainly did not seek their
lives, for he had many a chance to kill them in the depth of the forest.
Besides, was not he the man who befriended them during that eventful
night in the cave? Had they not shown their gratitude by keeping the
secret which they had promised so faithfully to keep? That the cave had
been discovered was not their fault. Tom the Tinker and he alone was
answerable for this! And at the very thought of the old miser Stayford's
face flushed with anger. With difficulty he stifled the curse he was
about to utter, as he lay there listening to the boys.
"Now for good luck," said Martin, as he threw his minnow near the
branches of the fallen tree.
"And here goes for a three-pounder," chimed in Owen, dropping his minnow
on the opposite side of the sycamore.
Five minutes passed. The boys played their minnows up and down the
stream, threw them out and pulled them in, vainly hoping to attract a
fish.
"No three-pounder yet," said Owen, who, as the reader has seen, had not
the patience of his companion.
"No, not yet," replied Martin, still manoeuvering with his line. "Not
yet, but they'll come soon. We can't expect the perch to be waiting at
the exact spot where we chance to stop."
"And they can't expect us to wait all day for them," rejoined Owen, with
a laugh.
"Give them a fair trial--say fifteen minutes more."
"All right," and Owen took out his father's watch, which he had borrowed
for the day.
"Look at your bobber!" cried Martin before two minutes had passed.
"Where?"
"It's gone! Pull!"
Owen did pull, but it was too late, for he had lost his minnow.
"That wasn't a perch," said he. "Surely it wasn't a turtle, for they
don't bite until warm weather."
"Surely it was a turtle," said Martin. "There it is."
As he spoke a large mossback came to the surface, and calmly surveyed
the surroundings, as if to say: "Well, my little boy, that's all you
know about turtles biting before warm weather."
"There's a target for us," said Martin. "Let him have a bullet."
As quick as a flash both boys grasped their pistols, which they took
pride in wearing whenever they went into the woods or along the river,
and fired at the same instant. One ball pierced the turtle's head. It
gave several clumsy strokes, then gradually sunk, leaving a bloody
streak behind.
From his place of concealment Stayford watched this exhibition of skill.
"It is well for me that I am not here to meet those boys in a fair fight
with pistols," he thought to himself. "How quick it was done, too. Of
course it was that young Owen. He seems to handle a pistol as well as he
does a rifle, and the very pistol he won at the shooting-match. How I
would like to have one of that make," and Walter Stayford examined the
rusty cap and ball revolver which hung at his side.
"Your bullet hit him," said Owen, who thought that in his eagerness to
fire rapidly he had shot above the turtle.
"I reckon it's hard to judge," replied Martin.
"I reckon not!" muttered Stayford to himself, for in his opinion only
the youthful victor of the shooting-match could have performed such a
feat.
"No; I aimed too high," said Owen in response to Martin's doubt.
"That's bad luck, at any rate," Martin grumbled, "we've lost the turtle
and frightened away the perch."
"I am willing to give them the full fifteen minutes; they have--have
eight minutes left," replied Owen.
"In goes the minnow--and under goes the bobber--and out comes the
first--first--first perch!" cried Martin, with excitement, at the same
time landing a perch weighing about a pound.
"That must be a straggler," said Owen, "let us see whether he brought a
companion along."
He threw in his line at the same place, and almost the same
moment, as his float moved slowly off, began to repeat,
"I--I--I--have--have--have--ve--a fine one," and when he finished the
last word he pulled in a perch twice the size of Martin's.
"Good!" shouted Martin; "I wonder what brought him around."
"Don't know; but now for the fun if we have struck a school of them."
For four hours the boys did not move from the spot. Fish after fish was
landed, until a string of forty perch was the reward of their day's
effort.
"Only six minnows left," at last said Owen, feeling in the bucket for
another bait.
"Wait a moment," interposed Martin, "let us try the new way. An old
fisherman told me the other day that he always baited the shiners
through the back, because in this position they appeared more natural."
"Now's a good time to try," said Owen, "for we can afford to lose a few
minnows. How did he say to fix them?"
"Run the hook under the big fin on the back."
"How's that?" queried Owen, holding up the baited hook.
"It looks all right, but I don't know how it will work," said Martin.
"We'll soon find that out," replied Owen, casting his line into the
stream. "At least, it hasn't frightened them away," he continued, after
a short pause, "for one is biting now, and--and--and here it is."
"Yes, here the line is," said Martin, "but both perch and minnow are
gone. I see that you don't understand the new way of fishing."
"It is much better to bait them through the mouth."
"That's to be proved," argued Martin, "look at this."
Both hooks were then baited in the new way. Bite--jerk--minnow
lost--perch gone; it was all over in less than a minute.
"What'd I tell you?" cried Owen.
"Give them more than one chance! Remember how you wished to leave this
place in the morning because the fish did not run up and bite
immediately."
"There are three minnows left; if you wish to feed the perch with them,
do so. I've had enough fishing for one day."
Martin selected the largest of the three minnows in the bucket. It
proved to be a chub, fat and slimy; one that would disappear, oyster
like, down the throat of a perch. An unfortunate gormand seized it, and
was soon placed with the other finny captives.
"That was an accident! You'll not catch another perch!" exclaimed Owen.
"Fine luck you are having, boys," said a voice from behind, while at the
same time a hand was laid upon Owen's shoulder. It was Walter Stayford
who thus disturbed the boys in their sport. For hours he listened to
their conversation, but so engrossed were they with the perch that not
one word was uttered which gave Stayford the least satisfaction. Seeing
that they would soon leave the place, he emerged from behind the bushes
with the intention of questioning them and discovering whether or not
any one in the neighborhood was suspected of illicit distilling. He
congratulated Owen on the manly fight which he had made to save the war
message, and then, from flattery, went on to ask if anything of
importance had happened since the news from the battle. With all his
prying and talking, however, he learned nothing. Certainly the boys had
not heard of Simpson's adventure, nor was Owen aware that Tom the Tinker
was the man who had sought to gain possession of the message.
While not altogether satisfactory, and of a negative character, the
results of the meagre knowledge which Stayford thus obtained, were not
without their importance. The fact that Simpson had been detected in
delivering the whisky and had been pursued was not generally known, for,
if so, the boys would certainly have heard some of the neighbors speak
of it. This was good news. Yet it was just possible that those who were
in possession of the secret pretended to know nothing of the matter, so
as to facilitate the capture of the men who had sold the whisky. Such
were the thoughts which Stayford revolved in his mind as he stood
talking to the boys on the river bank. Nothing could now be done but
return to the cave and wait for the stage. Jerry was right; no doubt, if
any effort was being made to capture the illicit distillers, the men
thus engaged were in correspondence with Squire Grundy.