grasshopper on my hook; then I lay, face downward, on the grass, and
worked myself slowly forward until I could see the middle of the stream;
then quietly raising my pole, I gave my grasshopper a good swing, as if
he had made a wager to jump over the stream at its widest part. But as
he certainly would have failed in such an ambitious endeavor, especially
if he had been caught by a puff of wind, I let him come down upon the
surface of the water, a little beyond the middle of the brook.
Grasshoppers do not sink when they fall into the water, and so I kept
this fellow upon the surface, and gently moved him along, as if, with
all the conceit taken out of him by the result of his ill-considered
leap, he was ignominiously endeavoring to swim to shore. As I did this,
I saw the trout come out from under the bank, move slowly toward the
grasshopper, and stop directly under him. Trembling with anxiety and
eager expectation, I endeavored to make the movements of the insect
still more natural, and, as far as I was able, I threw into him a sudden
perception of his danger, and a frenzied desire to get away. But,
either the trout had had all the grasshoppers he wanted, or he was able,
from long experience, to perceive the difference between a natural
exhibition of emotion and a histrionic imitation of it, for he slowly
turned, and, with a few slight movements of his tail, glided back under
the bank. In vain did the grasshopper continue his frantic efforts to
reach the shore; in vain did he occasionally become exhausted, and sink
a short distance below the surface; in vain did he do everything that he
knew, to show that he appreciated what a juicy and delicious morsel he
was, and how he feared that the trout might yet be tempted to seize him;
the fish did not come out again.
Then I withdrew my line, and moved back from the stream. I now
determined to try Mr. Trout with a fly, and I took out the paper old
Peter Gruse had given me. I did not know exactly what kind of winged
insects were in order at this time of the year, but I was sure that
yellow butterflies were not particular about just what month it was, so
long as the sun shone warmly. I therefore chose that one of Peter's
flies which was made of the yellowest feathers, and, removing the snood
and hook from my line, I hastily attached this fly, which was provided
with a hook quite suitable for my desired prize. Crouching on the
grass, I again approached the brook. Gaily flitting above the glassy
surface of the water, in all the fancied security of tender youth and
innocence, came my yellow fly. Backward and forward over the water he
gracefully flew, sometimes rising a little into the air, as if to view
the varied scenery of the woods and mountains, and then settling for a
moment close to the surface, to better inspect his glittering image as
it came up from below, and showing in his every movement his intense
enjoyment of summer-time and life.
Out from his dark retreat now came the trout, and settling quietly at
the bottom of the brook, he appeared to regard the venturesome insect
with a certain interest. But he must have detected the iron-barb of vice
beneath the mask of blitheful innocence, for, after a short
deliberation, the trout turned and disappeared under the bank. As he
slowly moved away, he seemed to be bigger than ever. I must catch that
fish! Surely he would bite at something. It was quite evident that his
mind was not wholly unsusceptible to emotions emanating from an
awakening appetite, and I believed that if he saw exactly what he
wanted, he would not neglect an opportunity of availing himself of it.
But what did he want? I must certainly find out. Drawing myself back
again, I took off the yellow fly, and put on another. This was a white
one, with black blotches, like a big miller moth which had fallen into
an ink-pot. It was surely a conspicuous creature, and as I crept forward
and sent it swooping over the stream, I could not see how any trout,
with a single insectivorous tooth in his head, could fail to rise to
such an occasion. But this trout did not rise. He would not even come
out from under his bank to look at the swiftly flitting creature. He
probably could see it well enough from where he was.
But I was not to be discouraged. I put on another fly; a green one with
a red tail. It did not look like any insect that I had ever seen, but I
thought that the trout might know more about such things than I. He did
come out to look at it, but probably considering it a product of that
modern æstheticism which sacrifices natural beauty to mediæval crudeness
of color and form, he retired without evincing any disposition to
countenance this style of art.
It was evident that it would be useless to put on any other flies, for
the two I had left were a good deal bedraggled, and not nearly so
attractive as those I had used. Just before leaving the house that
morning, Peter's son had given me a wooden match-box filled with worms
for bait, which, although I did not expect to need, I put in my pocket.
As a last resort I determined to try the trout with a worm. I selected
the plumpest and most comely of the lot; I put a new hook on my line; I
looped him about it in graceful coils, and cautiously approached the
water, as before. Now a worm never attempts to wildly leap across a
flowing brook, nor does he flit in thoughtless innocence through the
sunny air, and over the bright transparent stream. If he happens to fall
into the water, he sinks to the bottom; and if he be of a kind not
subject to drowning, he generally endeavors to secrete himself under a
stone, or to burrow in the soft mud. With this knowledge of his nature I
gently dropped my worm upon the surface of the stream, and then allowed
him slowly to sink. Out sailed the trout from under the bank, but
stopped before reaching the sinking worm. There was a certain something
in his action which seemed to indicate a disgust at the sight of such
plebeian food, and a fear seized me that he might now swim off, and pay
no further attention to my varied baits. Suddenly there was a ripple in
the water, and I felt a pull on the line. Instantly I struck; and then
there was a tug. My blood boiled through every vein and artery, and I
sprang to my feet. I did not give him the butt; I did not let him run
with yards of line down the brook; nor reel him in, and let him make
another mad course up stream; I did not turn him over as he jumped into
the air; nor endeavor, in any way, to show him that I understood those
tricks, which his depraved nature prompted him to play upon the angler.
With an absolute dependence upon the strength of old Peter's tackle, I
lifted the fish. Out he came from the water, which held him with a
gentle suction as if unwilling to let him go, and then he whirled
through the air like a meteor flecked with rosy fire, and landed on the
fresh green grass a dozen feet behind me. Down on my knees I dropped
before him as he tossed and rolled, his beautiful spots and colors
glistening in the sun. He was truly a splendid trout, fully a foot long,
round and heavy. Carefully seizing him, I easily removed the hook from
the bony roof of his capacious mouth thickly set with sparkling teeth,
and then I tenderly killed him, with all his pluck, as old Peter would
have said, still in him.
I covered the rest of the fish in my basket with wet plantain leaves,
and laid my trout king on this cool green bed. Then I hurried off to the
old man, whom I saw coming out of the woods. When I opened my basket and
showed him what I had caught, Peter looked surprised, and, taking up
the trout, examined it.
"Why, this is a big fellow," he said. "At first I thought it was Barney
Sloat's boss trout, but it isn't long enough for him. Barney showed me
his trout, that gen'rally keeps in a deep pool, where a tree has fallen
over the stream down there. Barney tells me he often sees him, and he's
been tryin' fur two years to ketch him, but he never has, and I say he
never will, fur them big trout's got too much sense to fool round any
kind of victuals that's got a string to it. They let a little fish eat
all he wants, and then they eat him. How did you ketch this one?"
I gave an account of the manner of the capture, to which Peter listened
with interest and approval.
"If you'd a stood off and made a cast at that feller, you'd either have
caught him at the first flip, which isn't likely, as he didn't seem to
want no feather flies, or else you'd a skeered him away. That's all well
enough in the tumblin' water, where you gen'rally go fur trout, but the
man that's got the true feelin' fur fish will try to suit his idees to
theirs, and if he keeps on doin' that, he's like to learn a thing or two
that may do him good. That's a fine fish, and you ketched him well. I've
got a lot of 'em, but nothin' of that heft."
After luncheon we fished for an hour or two with no result worth
recording, and then we started for home. A couple of partridges ran
across the road some distance ahead of us, and these gave Peter an idea.
"Do you know," said he, "if things go on as they're goin' on now, that
there'll come a time when it won't be considered high-toned sport to
shoot a bird slam-bang dead. The game gunners will pop 'em with little
harpoons, with long threads tied to 'em, and the feller that can tire
out his bird, and haul him in with the longest and thinnest piece of
spool thread, will be the crackest sportsman."
At this point I remarked to my companion that perhaps he was a little
hard on the game fishermen.
"Well," said old Peter, with a smile on his corrugated visage, "I reckon
I'd have to do a lot of talkin' before I'd git even with 'em, fur the
way they give me the butt for my style of fishin'. What I say behind
their backs I say to their faces. I seed one of these fellers once with
a fish on his hook, that he was runnin' up an' down the stream like a
chased chicken. 'Why don't you pull him in?' says I. 'And break my rod
an' line?' says he. 'Why don't you have a stronger line and pole?' says
I. 'There wouldn't be no science in that,' says he. 'If it's your
science you want to show off,' says I, 'you ought to fish for mud eels.
There's more game in 'em than there is in any other fish round here, and
as they're mighty lively out of water you might play one of 'em fur half
an hour after you got him on shore, and it would take all your science
to keep him from reelin' up his end of the line faster than you could
yourn.'"
When we reached the farm the old man went into the barn, and I took the
fish into the house. I found the two pretty daughters in the large room,
where the eating and some of the cooking was done. I opened my basket,
and with great pride showed them the big trout I had caught. They
evidently thought it was a large fish, but they looked at each other,
and smiled in a way that I did not understand. I had expected from them,
at least, as much admiration for my prize and my skill as their father
had shown.
"You don't seem to think much of this fine trout that I took such
trouble to catch," I remarked.
"You mean," said the elder girl, with a laugh, "that you bought of
Barney Sloat."
I looked at her in astonishment.
"Barney was along here to-day," she said, "and he told about your buying
your fish of him."
"Bought of him!" I exclaimed, indignantly. "A little string of fish at
the bottom of the basket I bought of him, but all the others, and this
big one, I caught myself."
"Oh, of course," said the pretty daughter, "bought the little ones and
caught all the big ones!"
"Barney Sloat ought to have kept his mouth shut," said the younger
pretty daughter, looking at me with an expression of pity. "He'd got his
money, and he hadn't no business to go telling on people. Nobody likes
that sort of thing. But this big fish is a real nice one, and you shall
have it for your supper."
"Thank you," I said, with dignity, and left the room.
I did not intend to have any further words with these young women on
this subject, but I cannot deny that I was annoyed and mortified. This
was the result of a charitable action. I think I was never more proud of
anything than of catching that trout; and it was a good deal of a
downfall to suddenly find myself regarded as a mere city man fishing
with a silver hook. But, after all, what did it matter?
The boy who did not seem to be accounted a member of the family came
into the house, and as he passed me he smiled good-humoredly, and said:
"Buyed 'em!"
I felt like throwing a chair at him, but refrained out of respect to my
host. Before supper the old man came out on to the porch where I was
sitting. "It seems," said he, "that my gals has got it inter their heads
that you bought that big fish of Barney Sloat, and as I can't say I seed
you ketch it, they're not willin' to give in, 'specially as I didn't git
no such big one. 'Tain't wise to buy fish when you're goin' fishin'
yourself. It's pretty certain to tell agen you."
"You ought to have given me that advice before," I said, somewhat
shortly. "You saw me buy the fish."
"You don't s'pose," said old Peter, "that I'm goin' to say anythin' to
keep money out of my neighbor's pockets. We don't do that way in these
parts. But I've told the gals they're not to speak another word about
it, so you needn't give your mind no worry on that score. And now let's
go in to supper. If you're as hungry as I am, there won't be many of
them fish left fur breakfast."
That evening, as we were sitting smoking on the porch, old Peter's mind
reverted to the subject of the unfounded charge against me. "It goes
pretty hard," he remarked, "to have to stand up and take a thing you
don' like when there's no call fur it. It's bad enough when there is a
call fur it. That matter about your fish buyin' reminds me of what
happened two summers ago to my sister, or ruther to her two little
boys--or, more correct yit, to one of 'em. Them was two cur'ous little
boys. They was allus tradin' with each other. Their father deals mostly
in horses, and they must have got it from him. At the time I'm tellin'
of they'd traded everythin' they had, and when they hadn't nothin' else
left to swap they traded names. Joe he took Johnny's name, and Johnny he
took Joe's. Jist about when they'd done this, they both got sick with
sumthin' or other, the oldest one pretty bad, the other not much. Now
there ain't no doctor inside of twenty miles of where my sister lives.
But there's one who sometimes has a call to go through that part of the
country, and the people about there is allus very glad when they chance
to be sick when he comes along. Now this good luck happened to my
sister, fur the doctor come by jist at this time. He looks into the
state of the boys, and while their mother has gone downstairs he mixes
some medicine he has along with him. 'What's your name?' he says to the
oldest boy when he'd done it. Now as he'd traded names with his brother,
fair and square, he wasn't goin' back on the trade, and he said, 'Joe.'
'And my name's Johnny,' up and says the other one. Then the doctor he
goes and gives the bottle of medicine to their mother, and says he:
'This medicine is fur Joe. You must give him a tablespoonful every two
hours. Keep up the treatment, and he'll be all right. As fur Johnny,
there's nothin' much the matter with him. He don't need no medicine.'
And then he went away. Every two hours after that Joe, who wasn't sick
worth mentionin', had to swallow a dose of horrid stuff, and pretty soon
he took to his bed, and Johnny he jist played round and got well in the
nat'ral way. Joe's mother kept up the treatment, gittin' up in the night
to feed that stuff to him; but the poor little boy got wuss and wuss,
and one mornin' he says to his mother, says he: 'Mother, I guess I'm
goin' to die, and I'd ruther do that than take any more of that
medicine, and I wish you'd call Johnny and we'll trade names back agen,
and if he don't want to come and do it, you kin tell him he kin keep the
old minkskin I gave him to boot, on account of his name havin' a Wesley
in it.' 'Trade names,' says his mother, 'what do you mean by that?' And
then he told her what he and Johnny had done. 'And did you ever tell
anybody about this?' says she. 'Nobody but Dr. Barnes,' says he. 'After
that I got sick and forgot it.' When my sister heard that, an idee
struck into her like you put a fork into an apple dumplin'. Traded
names, and told the doctor! She'd all along thought it strange that the
boy that seemed wuss should be turned out, and the other one put under
treatment; but it wasn't fur her to set up her opinion agen that of a
man like Dr. Barnes. Down she went, in about seventeen jumps, to where
Eli Timmins, the hired man, was ploughin' in the corn. 'Take that horse
out of that,' she hollers, 'and you may kill him if you have to, but git
Dr. Barnes here before my little boy dies.' When the doctor come he
heard the story, and looked at the sick youngster, and then says he: 'If
he'd kept his minkskin, and not hankered after a Wesley to his name,
he'd a had a better time of it. Stop the treatment, and he'll be all
right.' Which she did; and he was. Now it seems to me that this is a
good deal like your case. You've had to take a lot of medicine that
didn't belong to you, and I guess it's made you feel pretty bad; but
I've told my gals to stop the treatment, and you'll be all right in the
mornin'. Good-night. Your candlestick is on the kitchen table."
For two days longer I remained in this neighborhood, wandering alone
over the hills, and up the mountain-sides, and by the brooks, which
tumbled and gurgled through the lonely forest. Each evening I brought
home a goodly supply of trout, but never a great one like the noble
fellow for which I angled in the meadow stream.
On the morning of my departure I stood on the porch with old Peter
waiting for the arrival of the mail driver, who was to take me to the
nearest railroad town.
"I don't want to say nothin'," remarked the old man, "that would keep
them fellers with the jinted poles from stoppin' at my house when they
comes to these parts a-fishin'. I ain't got no objections to their
poles; 'tain't that. And I don't mind nuther their standin' off, and
throwin' their flies as fur as they've a mind to; that's not it. And it
ain't even the way they have of worryin' their fish. I wouldn't do it
myself, but if they like it, that's their business. But what does rile
me is the cheeky way in which they stand up and say that there isn't no
decent way of fishin' but their way. And that to a man that's ketched
more fish, of more different kinds, with more game in 'em, and had more
fun at it, with a lot less money, and less tomfoolin' than any fishin'
feller that ever come here and talked to me like an old cat tryin' to
teach a dog to ketch rabbits. No, sir; agen I say that I don't take no
money fur entertainin' the only man that ever come out here to go
a-fishin' in a plain, Christian way. But if you feel tetchy about not
payin' nothin', you kin send me one of them poles in three pieces, a
good strong one, that'll lift Barney Sloat's trout, if ever I hook him."
I sent him the rod; and next summer I am going out to see him use it.