In the soft evenings of April when the air is full of the undefinable
odor of the warming earth and of the incessant rejoicing of innumerable
members of the many families of batrachians, one may see silently moving
lights prowling along the low shores of shallow waters, now hidden by
trunks of great trees that are knee-deep in the still water, now
emerging, illuminating bolls and branches and flashing their glimmering
glades far across the ripples of wake and light breeze.
If one were near enough he could see the boat of the spearers, its bow
and the intent figure of the spearman aglow in the light of the jack
which flares a backward flame with its steady progress, and drops a slow
shower of sparks, while the stern and the paddler sitting therein are
dimly apparent in the verge of the gloom.
These may be honest men engaged in no illegal affair; they exercise
skill of a certain sort; they are enthusiastic in the pursuit of their
pastime, which is as fair as jacking deer, a practice upheld by many in
high places; yet these who by somewhat similar methods take fish for
sport and food are not accounted honest fishermen, but arrant poachers.
If jacking deer is right, how can jacking fish be wrong? or if jacking
fish be wrong, how can jacking deer be right? Verily, there are nice
distinctions in the ethics of sport.