Surely no trout could have been misled by the artificial May-fly of that
time, unless he were either a very young fish, quite new to entomology,
or else one afflicted with a combination of myopy and bulimy. Even now
there is room for plenty of improvement in our counterfeit presentment;
but in those days the body was made with yellow mohair, ribbed with red
silk and gold twist, and as thick as a fertile bumble-bee. John Pike
perceived that to offer such a thing to Crocker's trout would probably
consign him--even if his great stamina should over-get the horror--to
an uneatable death, through just and natural indignation. On the other
hand, while the May-fly lasted, a trout so cultured, so highly refined,
so full of light and sweetness, would never demean himself to low bait,
or any coarse son of a maggot.
Meanwhile Alec Bolt allowed poor Pike no peaceful thought, no calm
absorption of high mind into the world of flies, no placid period of
cobblers' wax, floss-silk, turned hackles, and dubbing. For in making of
flies John Pike had his special moments of inspiration, times of clearer
insight into the everlasting verities, times of brighter conception and
more subtle execution, tails of more elastic grace and heads of a
neater and nattier expression. As a poet labours at one immortal line,
compressing worlds of wisdom into the music of ten syllables, so toiled
the patient Pike about the fabric of a fly comprising all the excellence
that ever sprang from maggot. Yet Bolt rejoiced to jerk his elbow at the
moment of sublimest art. And a swarm of flies was blighted thus.
Peaceful, therefore, and long-suffering, and full of resignation as he
was, John Pike came slowly to the sad perception that arts avail not
without arms. The elbow, so often jerked, at last took a voluntary jerk
from the shoulder, and Alec Bolt lay prostrate, with his right eye full
of cobbler's wax. This put a desirable check upon his energies for a
week or more, and by that time Pike had flown his fly.
When the honeymoon of spring and summer (which they are now too
fashionable to celebrate in this country), the hey-day of the whole year
marked by the budding of the wild rose, the start of the wheatear from
its sheath, the feathering of the lesser plantain, and flowering of
the meadowsweet, and, foremost for the angler's joy, the caracole of
May-flies--when these things are to be seen and felt (which has not
happened at all this year), then rivers should be mild and bright, skies
blue and white with fleecy cloud, the west wind blowing softly, and the
trout in charming appetite.
On such a day came Pike to the bank of Culm, with a loudly beating
heart. A fly there is, not ignominious, or of cowdab origin, neither
gross and heavy-bodied, from cradlehood of slimy stones, nor yet of
menacing aspect and suggesting deeds of poison, but elegant, bland, and
of sunny nature, and obviously good to eat. Him or her--why quest we
which?--the shepherd of the dale, contemptuous of gender, except in his
own species, has called, and as long as they two coexist will call, the
“Yellow Sally.” A fly that does not waste the day in giddy dances
and the fervid waltz, but undergoes family incidents with decorum and
discretion. He or she, as the case may be,--for the natural history of
the river bank is a book to come hereafter, and of fifty men who make
flies not one knows the name of the fly he is making,--in the early
morning of June, or else in the second quarter of the afternoon, this
Yellow Sally fares abroad, with a nice well-ordered flutter.
Despairing of the May-fly, as it still may be despaired of, Pike came
down to the river with his master-piece of portraiture. The artificial
Yellow Sally is generally always--as they say in Cheshire--a mile or
more too yellow. On the other hand, the “Yellow Dun” conveys no idea of
any Sally. But Pike had made a very decent Sally, not perfect (for he
was young as well as wise), but far above any counterfeit to be had in
fishing-tackle shops. How he made it, he told nobody. But if he lives
now, as I hope he does, any of my readers may ask him through the
G.P.O., and hope to get an answer.
It fluttered beautifully on the breeze, and in such living form, that
a brother or sister Sally came up to see it, and went away sadder and
wiser. Then Pike said: “Get away, you young wretch,” to your humble
servant who tells this tale; yet being better than his words, allowed
that pious follower to lie down upon his digestive organs and with deep
attention watch, There must have been great things to see, but to see
them so was difficult. And if I huddle up what happened, excitement also
shares the blame.
Pike had fashioned well the time and manner of this overture. He knew
that the giant Crockerite was satiate now with May-flies, or began to
find their flavour failing, as happens to us with asparagus, marrow-fat
peas, or strawberries, when we have had a month of them. And he thought
that the first Yellow Sally of the season, inferior though it were,
might have the special charm of novelty. With the skill of a Zulu, he
stole up through the branches over the lower pool till he came to a spot
where a yard-wide opening gave just space for spring of rod. Then he saw
his desirable friend at dinner, wagging his tail, as a hungry gentleman
dining with the Lord Mayor agitates his coat. With one dexterous whirl,
untaught by any of the many-books upon the subject, John Pike laid his
Yellow Sally (for he cast with one fly only) as lightly as gossamer upon
the rapid, about a yard in front of the big trout's head.
A moment's pause, and then, too quick for words, was the things that
happened.
A heavy plunge was followed by a fearful rush. Forgetful of current the
river was ridged, as if with a plough driven under it; the strong line,
though given out as fast as might be, twanged like a harp-string as it
cut the wave, and then Pike stood up, like a ship dismasted, with the
butt of his rod snapped below the ferrule. He had one of those foolish
things, just invented, a hollow butt of hickory; and the finial ring of
his spare top looked out, to ask what had happened to the rest of it.
“Bad luck!” cried the fisherman; “but never mind, I shall have him next
time, to a certainty.”
When this great issue came to be considered, the cause of it was sadly
obvious. The fish, being hooked, had made off with the rush of a shark
for the bottom of the pool. A thicket of saplings below the alder tree
had stopped the judicious hooker from all possibility of following;
and when he strove to turn him by elastic pliance, his rod broke at the
breach of pliability. “I have learned a sad lesson,” said John Pike,
looking sadly.
How many fellows would have given up this matter, and glorified
themselves for having hooked so grand a fish, while explaining that they
must have caught him, if they could have done it! But Pike only told me
not to say a word about it, and began to make ready for another tug of
war. He made himself a splice-rod, short and handy, of well-seasoned
ash, with a stout top of bamboo, tapered so discreetly, and so balanced
in its spring, that verily it formed an arc, with any pressure on it, as
perfect as a leafy poplar in a stormy summer. “Now break it if you can,”
he said, “by any amount of rushes; I'll hook you by your jacket collar;
you cut away now, and I'll land you.”
This was highly skilful, and he did it many times; and whenever I was
landed well, I got a lollypop, so that I was careful not to break his
tackle. Moreover he made him a landing net, with a kidney-bean stick,
a ring of wire, and his own best nightcap of strong cotton net. Then
he got the farmer's leave, and lopped obnoxious bushes; and now the
chiefest question was: what bait, and when to offer it? In spite of
his sad rebuff, the spirit of John Pike had been equable. The genuine
angling mind is steadfast, large, and self-supported, and to the vapid,
ignominious chaff, tossed by swine upon the idle wind, it pays as much
heed as a big trout does to a dance of midges. People put their fingers
to their noses and said: “Master Pike, have you caught him yet?”
and Pike only answered: “Wait a bit.” If ever this fortitude and
perseverance is to be recovered as the English Brand (the one thing that
has made us what we are, and may yet redeem us from niddering shame),
a degenerate age should encourage the habit of fishing and never
despairing. And the brightest sign yet for our future is the increasing
demand for hooks and gut.
Pike fished in a manlier age, when nobody would dream of cowering from a
savage because he was clever at skulking; and when, if a big fish broke
the rod, a stronger rod was made for him, according to the usage of
Great Britain. And though the young angler had been defeated, he did not
sit down and have a good cry over it.
About the second week in June, when the May-fly had danced its day,
and died,--for the season was an early one,--and Crocker's trout had
recovered from the wound to his feelings and philanthropy, there came
a night of gentle rain, of pleasant tinkling upon window ledges, and
a soothing patter among young leaves, and the Culm was yellow in the
morning, “I mean to do it this afternoon,” Pike whispered to me, as
he came back panting. “When the water clears there will be a splendid
time.”
The lover of the rose knows well a gay voluptuous beetle, whose pleasure
is to lie embedded in a fount of beauty. Deep among the incurving petals
of the blushing-fragrance, he loses himself in his joys sometimes,
till a breezy waft reveals him. And when the sunlight breaks upon his
luscious dissipation, few would have the heart to oust him, such a gem
from such a setting. All his back is emerald sparkles all his front red
Indian gold, and here and there he grows white spots to save the eye
from aching. Pike put his finger in and fetched him out, and offered him
a little change of joys, by putting a Limerick hook-through his thorax,
and bringing it out between his elytra. _Cetonia aurata_ liked it
not, but pawed the air very naturally, and fluttered with his wings
attractively.
“I meant to have tried with a fern-web,” said the angler; “until I saw
one of these beggars this morning. If he works like that upon the
water, he will do. It was hopeless to try artificials again. What a
lovely colour the water is! Only three days now to the holidays. I have
run it very close. You be ready, younker.”
With these words he stepped upon a branch of the alder, for the tone
of the waters allowed approach, being soft and sublustrous, without
any mud. Also Master Pike's own tone was such as becomes the fisherman,
calm, deliberate, free from nerve, but full of eye and muscle. He
stepped upon the alder bough to get as near as might be to the fish, for
he could not cast this beetle like a fly; it must be dropped gently and
allowed to play. “You may come and look,” he said to me; “when the water
is so, they have no eyes in their tails.”
The rose-beetle trod upon the water prettily, under a lively vibration,
and he looked quite as happy, and considerably more active, than when he
had been cradled in the anthers of the rose. To the eye of a fish he was
a strong individual, fighting courageously with the current, but sure
to be beaten through lack of fins; and mercy suggested, as well as
appetite, that the proper solution was to gulp him.
“Hooked him in the gullet. He can't get off!” cried John Pike, labouring
to keep his nerves under; “every inch of tackle is as strong as a
bell-pull. Now, if I don't land him, I will never fish again!”
Providence, which had constructed Pike foremost of all things, for lofty
angling-disdainful of worm and even minnow--Providence, I say, at this
adjuration, pronounced that Pike must catch that trout. Not many anglers
are heaven-born; and for one to drop off the hook halfway through his
teens would be infinitely worse than to slay the champion trout. Pike
felt the force of this, and rushing through the rushes, shouted: “I am
sure to have him, Dick! Be ready with my nightcap.”
Rod in a bow, like a springle-riser; line on the hum, like the string
of Paganini winch on the gallop, like a harpoon wheel, Pike, the
head-centre of everything, dashing through thick and thin, and once
taken overhead--for he jumped into the hole, when he must have lost
him else, but the fish too impetuously towed him out, and made off in
passion for another pool, when, if he had only retired to his hover, the
angler might have shared the baker's fate--all these things (I tell you,
for they all come up again, as if the day were yesterday) so scared me
of my never very steadfast wits, that I could only holloa! But one thing
I did, I kept the nightcap ready.
“He is pretty nearly spent, I do believe,” said Pike; and his voice was
like balm of Gilead, as we came to Farmer Anning's meadow, a quarter of
a mile below Crocker's Hole. “Take it coolly, my dear boy, and we shall
be safe to have him.”
Never have I felt, through forty years, such tremendous responsibility.
I had not the faintest notion now to use a landing net; but a mighty
general directed me. “Don't let him see it; don't let him see it! Don't
clap it over him; go under him, you stupid! If he makes another rush, he
will get off, after all. Bring it up his tail. Well done! You have him!”
The mighty trout lay in the nightcap of Pike, which was half a fathom
long, with a tassel at the end, for his mother had made it in the winter
evenings. “Come and hold the rod, if you can't lift him,” my master
shouted, and so I did. Then, with both arms straining, and his mouth
wide open, John Pike made a mighty sweep, and we both fell upon the
grass and rolled, with the giant of the deep flapping heavily between
us, and no power left to us, except to cry, “Hurrah!”