ON TROUT FISHING AND BOW-KNOTS
With what seemed to Barnes an inspired appetite, Mr. Van Patten
expressed a wish for brook-trout.
“Eleanor knows the stream,” he said. “And perhaps you yourself would
enjoy a little fishing.”
“I’d like nothing better,” Barnes responded heartily. “I’ll see if she
will go this afternoon.”
Accordingly he began a still hunt for her and surprised her from ambush
as she was passing through the living-room.
“Your father wishes us to go fishing,” he informed her bluntly lest she
should disappear before he had time to announce the glad news.
“Oh dear, I have so much to do,” she exclaimed.
“Are the duets on again this morning?” he inquired.
“No, it isn’t that.”
“Then?”
“Aunt Philomela is at her accounts. She becomes so confused when
adding.”
“I sympathize with her.”
“In making up her column,” she explained. “Aunt insists upon putting
down what each item is for; then she tries to add the items as well as
the figures. Like adding parsnips and butter.”
“They are very good when added in a frying-pan,” he averred.
“But you can’t add them in a column. She only does it towards the end.”
“But your father’s fish,” he reminded her.
“Perhaps you would go alone?”
“I enjoy fishing,” he answered with a sinking heart, “but that wouldn’t
bring your father a fish. I never have any luck. To-day we must be pot
hunters and work for results.”
“Well, if Daddy wishes a trout he ought to have one I suppose,” she
thought aloud.
“Undoubtedly,” he declared.
“Then I’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”
“May I dig the bait while you’re gone?” he inquired.
“The trout rise very well to flies,” she informed him.
For which he was glad. He was not prudishly sensitive about such things
but still he would not enjoy watching her impale a worm. It was a
wriggling function that he himself did not particularly relish, less
from humanitarian than æsthetic scruples.
She returned dressed in a short khaki skirt of hunting green, a
wide-brimmed boy’s straw hat and with a wicker fish-basket slung over
her shoulder. Her feet were encased in high oiled boots. She stepped
to the closet and brought out two rod cases, a book of flies, and two
reels.
“Have you any choice of weight?” she asked holding out both rods.
“You’d better give me the heavier one,” he suggested off hand.
The most of his fishing had been done from a flat boat with a bamboo
pole. Still he did not intend to admit to her such unsportsmanlike
conduct. He knew nothing of fly fishing but he was determined to
observe her closely and follow her example in every detail. When
in college he had gone South with some friends for a week of bird
shooting and had acquitted himself creditably by this method, though
he had never before held a gun. In the same way, by his quickness and
determination, he had ridden fifteen miles the first time he was ever
upon a horse.
They left the house without seeing Aunt Philomela, though as he went
down the path Barnes felt her eyes burning into his back. They crossed
the road and pushed through the fields to the meadow-brook. They
followed the banks for the matter of half a mile before she finally
stopped to put together the poles.
She glanced at the sky, at the water, and then ran her pink finger tips
over the gorgeous medley of brightly-feathered flies. She selected one
for herself and handed the book to him.
“I’m trying a Silver Moth,” she announced.
It took him longer to decide because there were no more Silver Moths,
but he finally drew out a gay scarlet fly with a body of mottled brown.
Its coloring was as daintily bright as that of a butterfly. He went
upon the simple theory that if _he_ were a trout it would be with some
such fastidious temptation that he himself would coquet. He adjusted it
slowly with one eye upon her.
She poised herself upon the edge of the bank with her figure erect,
alert, every fine line pulsating with life. With a full, free arm
movement she swung the lithe pole back, then forward. The Silver Moth
circled her head, paused a moment ten yards behind her, and then
following the swishing line darted straight out over the stream, swift
as a homing bee and kissed the water with scarcely a ripple. She drew
it back and this time sent it even farther. Then once again, until the
long line reached almost to the opposite bank.
What a picture that would make! Diana with her hounds was not half the
subject. What gentle strength there was in every movement--what rhythm,
and above the beautiful body, what a head. The wonder of those features
was that they lived up to any part you wished to assume for them. A
short while ago they had consistently upheld the traditions of Venice;
still later they had blended into dusk dreams; now they expressed the
elemental beauty of the Indian.
As the Silver Moth rippled against the current, she turned to see what
he was about. She saw and turned back again to the Silver Moth.
“What fly are you using?” she inquired.
“A butterfly,” he answered with an intake of breath.
Then he roused himself and contrived to get the bit of feather into the
water, though he was glad she did not observe the process.
He offered up a silent invocation:
“Oh, trout, king of all your fellows come to my hook and I will hallow
your death with prayers of thanksgiving. Set me well before her eyes
and I vow never to disturb your finny kingdom again.”
Had he only anticipated such an emergency as this he would have given
over the hours he had wasted so idly in dreams all these years, to the
perfecting himself in the art of casting a fly. There were those days
in London; he saw now that he could have used the Thames to much better
advantage than in merely gazing at its dull fogs; there was the Seine,
and he had stood lazily upon its banks for hours content in watching
the little barges puff up and down.
He felt a ferocious tug at his line. Before he recovered from his
surprise a speckled red body flung itself from the water and, striking
it again in a churning splash, cut an arrow-like course down stream.
He felt as though the line were knotted about his heart. He knew well
enough that now the thing to do was to keep the line taut.
“At any cost,” he muttered grimly.
“You’ve hooked him!” he heard her voice.
That was not quite accurate; the trout had hooked himself. But if there
was any grace in the strong will of a man he would keep him hooked.
She withdrew her line to give him plenty of room and to watch him.
There are few things a man cannot do if the right woman is watching
him. He fought the big trout back and forth, anticipating by instinct
every sudden turn, every inshore dart, every upstream flash. The line
did not slacken a quarter of an inch. Foot by foot he forced the
speckled beauty towards the bank. He was not even deceived when for
a second the fish lay passive a second and then darted towards the
shelter of a group of bowlders. He checked him within the very shadow
of this hiding-place. Then inch by inch he reeled again, dragging him
in relentlessly towards his hand.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “We should have brought the landing-net. But we
don’t often have use for it in these waters.”
He drew the line still closer towards his itching fingers. He grasped
it. He gave it a tug and in another second had tossed upon the grass
the largest trout ever taken from Schuyler brook.
She clapped her hands in applause.
“He’s a beauty,” she cried enthusiastically.
“Pretty fair,” he confessed modestly.
“And you handled him so well!” she praised.
“Thank you.”
“And to think you captured him with a Scarlet Beauty. I have never been
able to get a rise with that fly.”
“On a bright day,” he replied sagely, “and in slow waters, they seem to
work very well.”
“Your judgment was sound,” she admitted.
“It was the judgment of the gods.”
“Then the gods are certainly with you.”
“They are,” he confessed brazenly.
“I think I shall change my fly,” she determined. “What should you
advise?”
He picked out for her a pretty tasseled thing which contained a touch
of crimson such as was on his.
“I’d try this,” he counseled. “And I shall stand by and see how it
works.”
“But you’re going to fish too?”
“No. I’ve discharged my filial duties. Your father has his trout.”
“Then we must get one for Aunt Philomela.”
“I must refrain. I’m under certain obligations.”
“Obligations?” she questioned.
“To my prize. To the king,” he answered waving his hand airily towards
the gasping fish.
Acting upon this, he, to her wonder, packed up his rod, placed his
trout in the basket, and took a comfortable seat a little to the right
of her.
Truly the gods were with him. Had they not listened to his invocation?
Otherwise he must have stood upon the bank and given over his whole
thought to the matter of casting a bit of feather upon the waters. He
could have studied the sky only as it was reflected in the stream, and
only as much of her as he could catch from the corner of his eye. And
always there would have been the danger of an entangling alliance
between his hook and her gown with the consequent embarrassment of
showing ill before her. He must have been born under Pisces.
Again and again she cast her line for Aunt Philomela without success.
But what Aunt Philomela lost, he gained. He won a new memory of her
at every strong-limbed movement. He prayed for failure. Surely, he
thought, that estimable lady would cheerfully surrender the mere item
of a delectable morsel or two for such pictures as these.
But Miss Van Patten herself did not relish the position as much as she
might. She was conscious of being watched and this, unless a girl be
vain, is not pleasant no matter how delicately the watching is done. So
she slowly reeled in her line.
“Surely, you don’t mean to deprive Aunt Philomela of her fish?” he
hastened to protest.
“I think she would rather have me finish her accounts,” she affirmed.
“If we tried a few moments longer--”
“I have noticed,” she declared, continuing to reel in her line, “that
when at the beginning you land a big fish, the little fishes cease to
bite.”
He felt guilty, as though he had been the means of depriving her of
her sport. As she left the bank he took her pole and dismembered it
for her, prolonging the task as long as possible. He wished now that
he had not caught his fish so soon. The ideal way to fish with her,
he thought, would be to have a trout concealed in one’s pocket and so
with no responsibility dabble with the fly until the opportune moment
for going home arrived and then deftly hook the fish upon the line
and produce it. The pity of life was that no sooner had one prettily
solved some problem by experience than the opportunity for using it was
gone. It might well be that Mr. Van Patten would never have again so
convenient a taste for trout.
Barnes was in hope that perhaps she might seat herself, if he were long
enough about this business of packing up the rods, but she didn’t.
She watched him with interest but with no other thought in mind than
returning to the house as soon as he was ready. So with a little sigh,
he finally tied the cloth case at the top in a knot that no human being
could ever separate without the use of a knife.
“I never can untie that,” she protested.
“All you have to do,” he assured her with honest conviction, “is to
pull the loop string.”
“Don’t you know how to make a real bow-knot?” she asked.
“Isn’t that a bow-knot?”
“A bow-knot has two loops and comes untied,” she informed him.
“I thought the object of a knot was to remain tied. Mine have at least
that advantage.”
“But you want them to untie sometime.”
“You cut mine when you wish to undo them,” he explained.
“That is both wasteful and untidy. I will show you.”
Here was a lesson worth learning. He handed her the rod. She pulled
gingerly at the string but only succeeded in fixing the knot more
firmly than ever. She removed a pin from her hat and began to pick. It
was a long process but it gave him time to admire the nimbleness of her
fingers. The knot became loosened only too soon.
“There,” she exclaimed. “Now you take it so and you do like this.”
It was tied in the snap of a finger.
“Then, when you pull one end of either string, it becomes unfastened.”
She demonstrated. He took the rod and tried the same process clumsily.
She came nearer and guided his fingers. He caught the perfume of her
hair. It was like dying clover. He felt the electric thrill of her
fingers. It only made him the clumsier.
She gave up in despair.
“You will never learn,” she declared.
“I can always try.”
“You must practice by yourself.”
“I have done so for years.”
“Then,” she said, “you must never tie any but your own things.”
“Then,” he reflected, “anything that I wish to tie hard, I must first
own.”
But he didn’t own the rod, so she tied that herself. As they rose to go
Carl approached.
“Hello,” he called, “fishing?”
“No,” answered Barnes, “hunting.”