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IDN’T know that fish held town-meetings? That shows how your education
has been neglected. A town-meeting is an assembly; fish assemble;
therefore, fish hold town-meetings. Isn’t that conclusive? But the
fact is one of experience as well as of logical deduction. It can be
“mediated” by the faith of every disciple of the immortal Izaak.
This is the unadorned and veracious account of one of these piscatorial
gatherings, held on an August day in Caine River, New Brunswick,
seventeen miles from the nearest house. They had been gathering for
days. Prominent citizens were there from Big Rock, five miles down the
river, and almost every inhabitant of the Forks, three miles up stream,
had answered to roll-call. A large number of youngsters who had lately
taken up their abode in Blue Rock Brook seemed to think that this was
some sort of circus, and had to be nipped into order by their more
sedate seniors.
The main business on hand was to provide for the “summer schools” which
had won a deserved reputation for excellence long before the University
of Chicago opened its doors. It was customary, also, to elect a
path-master at this time, that the highways might be looked after and
kept free from grass. The Hon. S. Maximus Fontaine, political boss of
Troutopolis, had things well in hand, and it was generally admitted that
his slate would go through without a hitch.
No wonder that the beauty-loving trout came from far and from near to
this place of assembly. If the truth must be told a majority cared less
about the election than they did for the climate. Search the country
over and you could not find a more charming spot. Just where a great
clump of white birches made a whispering place for the wind, Blue Rock
Brook came gurgling down into the river. Its source was a great spring
back among the hills, and all along its course other springs gave of
their best to keep its waters cool and sweet. From start to finish it
was uncontaminated. When, at last, it found the river, it rested for
a little in a big, clear pool, before giving of its freshness to
the warmer waters of the larger stream. Just here, with clean gravel
underneath and the nodding birches casting their shadows overhead,
enswathed in a delicious coolness that defied the heat of the August
sun, were gathered the clans on the day of which we write. It was here
that they were deceived, betrayed, undone by a stony-hearted Preacher
who had journeyed far to be present at this meeting. But that suggests
backing up and starting over again in order to get the Preacher to this
lonely spot.
How did he find the town-meeting? That is a long story and must be
compressed if told at all. It would take more time than we have at
our command to describe the mighty struggle through which the Preacher
passed in wrenching himself away from the seductive stockyards’ odours
of Chicago. He succeeded, however, and went meandering through New York
State and Massachusetts, finally taking passage on a venerable tub that
crawls--in fair weather--between Boston and Yarmouth. There was a vague
idea haunting the ministerial mind that he wanted to see the Evangeline
country; but that infant persuasion died suddenly in Digby. If any
American tourist wants to see Nova Scotia let him keep away from Digby
or put it last on his list. For fascination it discounts the Lorelei.
All right-minded people (that means those who love to sail and fish) are
charmed with this little town.
If we had not set out to tell how the Preacher broke up that Blue Rock
town-meeting, we should stop right here and relate one or two mild
stories about the fishing at Digby. Did you ever catch pollock that were
run by ninety-horse-power steam engines? Pollock that would strike so
hard that they dislocated the fisherman’s shoulders when he tried to
check them up a bit? Did you ever catch a codfish weighing two hundred
and seventy pounds? Now this is not about pollock or codfish, and it is
just possible that one figure ought to be taken off the weight of that
cod. Do not ask that we tell about the day’s fishing on the Bay of
Fundy, for we must not do it. We “could a tale unfold,” but it shall not
be unfolded here lest we never get to that town-meeting.
It was at the supper table in a Fredericton hotel that the existence
of Blue Rock Pool first became known to the Preacher. He had opened his
heart to the whole company and begged of them information concerning the
trout fishing in that locality. One guest said that by driving out to
the northeast four miles trout could be gotten in limited numbers and of
small proportions. Another suggested going up the St. John’s River some
ten miles. There was much talk of what had been done in time past, and
much regret expressed that the Preacher had not come in June or waited
until later. The time was very unfavourable--it always is. Under such
consolation the mercury in the ministerial thermometer sank out of
sight. When supper was over and the Preacher was leaving the table,
a small man who had not said a word during the entire meal took the
discouraged dominie to one side and said:
“If you are willing to make a trip of some sixty or seventy miles and
camp out one night, I can tell you of a place where you can get some
trout.”
“But,” said the Preacher, “I have no tent or blankets or duffle of any
kind.”
“I’ll see to all that,” replied the little man; “I have everything that
you will need, and it is yours to use.”
What a lot of good fellows there are in the world, and the majority of
them love to fish. Here was a man putting his precious outfit at the
disposal of an utter stranger, with no thought of reward or desire for
it, simply to show a kindness to a brother devotee of the gentle art.
And the little man proved to be a tailor. Now it has been said that it
takes nine tailors to make a man; but you could have made nine average
men out of that tailor and there would have been material left to patch
the rest of the race. He gave the Preacher the name of a man who could
be secured as a guide, helped him make out a list of eatables, brought
over his caribou blanket, tent, dishes, etc., and bright and early the
next morning the train going north carried a passenger bound for Blue
Rock Pool.
Did you ever notice with what reluctance the average vehicle of
transportation moves when it has a fisherman on board? If you use a
horse, he’ll go to sleep; an auto is sure to throw a fit, and a railway
train almost invariably stops and goes backward for a good share of the
time. It looks as if there existed some sort of a “combine” to prevent
the fisherman from making connections with the place where he knows
bliss is waiting for him. It took the train six hours to go fifty miles!
They called it an “accommodation”; but by the way that fisherman growled
you could see that he did not realize that he was being accommodated.
He did finally get to Doaktown, where his guide lived, and found the
aforesaid gentleman waiting for him at the station in response to a
telegram sent the night before. His name was George--at least it ought
to have been--and he was a clean-looking, husky fellow about thirty-five
years of age. Close at hand was Bucephalus adjusted to a buckboard.
(Bucephalus was the prancing steed which had consented to haul us to
Caine River.) He was not handsome except in behaviour; in that he was a
beauty. Habakkuk had evidently not seen Bucephalus when he wrote: “Their
horses are swifter than the leopard.” The duffle was piled on behind the
seat, a bag of oats was given the place of honour on top of the duffie,
and Bucephalus, gently and with infinite caution, began to move. A sense
of security took possession of the Preacher’s soul with the first step
that that horse took. There was something dignified and assuring about
his movements that left the mind absolutely free to reflect upon the
beauties of nature, untroubled by any fear of personal injury. About
a mile out of Doaktown on the road to Caine River was a little hill.
Bravely Bucephalus tackled it, stopping not more than twice each rod to
give his passengers time to drink in the beauties of the scenery. It was
during this period of hill-climbing, with its attendant spaces of quiet,
that George began his wary approach towards getting acquainted with the
Preacher.
George: “Where do you live?”
Preacher: “Chicago.”
George: “What might your business be?”
Preacher: “I’m a Preacher.”
Thereupon George’s lower jaw dropped until it almost seemed to rest upon
the dashboard, while he rolled a skeptical eye towards his seat-mate.
Being convinced after prolonged scrutiny that the truth had been told,
he relapsed into silence, broken at last by the remark, “I’ll bet you
ain’t a Baptist Preacher.”
When his bet was promptly taken, he brought the interview to a close by
saying, “You must git a mighty sight more pay than our preacher or you’d
never got so far from home.”
For some time as Bucephalus jogged along through the woods George was
evidently depressed. He may have been reflecting upon certain emphatic
remarks addressed to Bucephalus earlier in the journey, or, possibly, he
was wondering how he could sneak out of his job. It was evident that he
had not reckoned on piloting a body of divinity on a fishing trip and
was somewhat dubious as to the prospect.
The road ended in Caine River, and for the five miles farther to Blue
Rock Pool there was nothing for it but to take to the bed of the stream.
It reminded one of driving over the cobble-stone pavements of Albany,
New York, only not quite so much so. The Swedish movement which
undertakes to joggle you all over is not in it for efficiency with such
a ride. If there is any part of the anatomy that is unmoved by this
wiggle and joggle it must be in the domain of the “subliminal self.”
When within sight of the destination it was found that the Preacher’s
suit-case, in which he had a change of underclothing, reel, flies, etc.,
had become discouraged and dropped off. It was found a mile down stream,
resting against a rock, with not a thing wet. “I’ll set up the tent and
git supper while you go after ‘em,” said George, an arrangement to which
the Preacher promptly agreed. The bamboo rod was put together, leader
and flies selected, and, just as the sun was touching the tree-tops on
the west bank of the river, the Preacher intruded upon the town-meeting.
Hon. S. Maximus Fontaine had just concluded a deal by which everything
was to go his way, when a strange and gaudy insect alighted upon the
surface of the pool and went wiggling toward the shore. There was a
wild and unseemly scramble, but the honourable wire-puller had his own
notions of precedence and, cuffing some of the smaller fry out of his
way and frightening off others by the glare of his eye, he proceeded
to make that tid-bit his own. No sooner had he closed his jaws upon the
coveted dainty than he was sorry, for there was evidently “a string
to it” and that string kept steadily tugging at his mouth. Much as he
believed in “pulls” he did not enjoy this one, and tried to part with
it. He cavorted about among his astonished fellow-townsmen, flung
himself out of the water, darted towards a well-known root that had
succoured him once before in a like experience, but still that firm
persuasion at work upon his mouth would not let up and, at last, he gave
ground and was guided out into the river.
Out in the stream, thirty or forty feet from the pool, stood the
Preacher engineering this performance. To say that he was nervous is a
mild statement. He was scared. It had occurred to him just after that
battle had begun that his landing net was at the camp, and here was a
big, big trout to be taken care of. A six-ounce bamboo rod does not lend
itself to the derrick act by which you lift the fish out of the water
by main force and throw him over your head, landing him some eighty rods
away. It would not do to try tiring out the old warrior in the pool,
for by the time that was accomplished all of his comrades would be in a
state of mind that would effectually prevent any further levy upon them.
So out in the river that fish must come while the fisherman takes his
chances. It was a long, hard fight, carried on a good part of the time
in swift water where the chances for the fish’s escape were excellent;
but at last, tired out and helpless, he was led into the still and
shallow water near the shore. There, just as the fisherman was reaching
down for him, the old politician gave a last lunge that snapped the
snood, and he was free; but before he could gather strength to swim away
the Preacher lay down on him, and the days of Hon. S. Maximus Fontaine
were numbered.
A new fly was fastened to the leader, and the disturbed citizens were
invited to interview it. A half-dozen, so small that they did not know
any better, were gathered in by the Preacher in one-two-three order.
Then came a tug that meant business, and the Preacher began kicking
himself for forgetting that landing net. It seems that a big politician
from the Miramichi had come up to see how Hon. S. Maximus managed
things, and as he had seen his friend tackle that first strange insect
and disappear, he concluded that this was the proper thing to do. He
followed his friend to the basket of the Preacher, but not until he
had indulged in some contortions that nearly gave the sportsman nervous
prostration.
By this time the shadows had thickened and George was yelling: “Supper’s
ready.” He was mistaken. It took about fifteen minutes to dress and fry
those half-dozen small trout--not one under half a pound--and while
they were cooking the Preacher weighed his prizes. Hon. S. Maximus came
within two ounces, and his friend within four ounces of four pounds. Did
you ever take a four-pound trout, or even a three-pounder, on a light
rod? Then you know how self-satisfied that Preacher was.
The tent had been pitched on a little plateau some fifteen feet above
the river. It was nine o’clock when supper was finished and the dishes
washed, horse picketed and everything made ready for the night. The
caribou skin was laid on the bed of boughs, the blankets made ready for
cover, and George and the Preacher “retired.” The campfire shone out
against the dark background of the wooded hills, the river sung a
lullaby, and George told a story about a moose that he had killed the
previous winter not more than forty rods from the spot where they were
lying, and--when the Preacher waked he was freezing. The fire had gone
out, it was nearly daybreak, and those blankets seemed made of gauze. He
had no inordinate affection for George under normal conditions, but now
he rolled over and clasped him to his heart. George seemed to have lost
his fear of the Preacher, and for the remainder of the night each tried
to use the other as a stove. Each failed of absolute success.
It is evident that the teller of this story has violated one of the
fundamental rules of homiletics, and made his porch too large for the
house. There remains a whole forenoon of fishing to be disposed of and
no time to tell about it. But if we had unlimited space at our command,
who could fittingly describe even an hour of successful dalliance with
the festive trout?
There were no more of the size of the political boss and his friend; but
how they came! Something over fifty trout preferred the Preacher to
the town-meeting, and when noon came that meeting had adjourned sine
die--especially _die_. Some were eaten for dinner, some were on the
table at the Doaktown hotel that night, George had what he wanted, and
twenty-one went back with the proud Preacher to Fredericton the next
morning.
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_This simple fact, so glad in itself, so obvious to one who keeps his
eyes open in Nature’s world, is mentioned here by way of invitation--to
assure the reader if he but enter this School of the Woods, he will
see little of that which made his heart ache in his own sad world;
no tragedies or footlight effects of woes or struggles but rather a
wholesome, cheerful life to make one glad and send him back to his
own school with deeper wisdom and renewed courage_.--William J. Long,
_School of the Woods._
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