TREE-SHOOTING: A FISHING EXPEDITION
Just on the verge and borderland of the territory that could be ranged
in safety there grew a stunted oak in a mound beside the brook. Perhaps
the roots had been checked by the water; for the tree, instead of
increasing in bulk, had expended its vigour in branches so crooked that
they appeared entangled in each other. This oak was a favourite
perching-place, because of its position: it could also be more easily
climbed than straight-grown timber, having many boughs low down the
trunk. With a gun it is difficult to ascend a smooth tree; these boughs
therefore were a great advantage.
One warm afternoon late in the summer I got up into this oak; and took
a seat astride a large limb, with the main trunk behind like the back
of a chair and about twenty feet above the mound. Some lesser branches
afforded a fork on which the gun could be securely lodged, and a limb
of considerable size came across in front. Leaning both arms on this, a
view could be obtained below and on three sides easily and without
effort.
The mound immediately beneath was grown over with thick blackthorn, a
species of cover that gives great confidence to game. A kick or blow
upon the bushes with a stick will not move anything in an old
blackthorn thicket. A man can scarcely push through it: nothing but a
dog can manage to get about. On the meadow side there was no ditch,
only a narrow fringe of tall pointed grass and rushes, with one or two
small furze bushes projecting out upon the sward. Behind such bushes,
on the slope of the mound, is rather a favourite place for a rabbit to
sit out, or a hare to have a form.
The brook was shallow towards the hedge, and bordered with flags, among
which rose up one tall bunch of beautiful reeds. Some little way up the
brook a pond opened from it. At the entrance the bar of mud had hardly
an inch of water; within there was a clear small space, and the rest
all weeds, with moorhens’ tracks. The farther side of the pond was
covered with bramble bushes. It is a good plan to send the dogs into
bushes growing on the banks of ponds; for though rabbits dislike water
itself they are fond of sitting out in such cover near it. A low
railing enclosed the side towards me: the posts had slipped by the
giving way of the soil, and hung over the still pool.
One of the rails—of willow—was eaten out into hollow cavities by the
wasps, which came to it generation after generation for the materials
of their nests. The particles they detach are formed into a kind of
paste or paper: in time they will quite honeycomb a pole. The third
side of the pond shelved to the “leaze,” that the cattle might drink.
From it a narrow track went across the broad field up the rising ground
to the distant gateway leading to the meadows, where they grazed on the
aftermath. Marching day by day, one after the other in single file, to
the drinking-place, the hoofs of the herd had cut a clean path in the
turf, two or three inches deep and trodden hard. The reddish soil thus
exposed marked the winding line athwart the field, through the tussocky
bunches.
By the pond stood a low three-sided merestone or landmark, the initials
on which were hidden under moss. Up in the tree, near the gun, there
was a dead branch that had decayed in the curious manner that seems
peculiar to oak. Where it joined the trunk the bark still remained,
though covered with lichen, and for a foot or so out; then there was a
long space where the bark and much of the wood had mouldered away;
finally, near the end the bough retained its original size and the bark
adhered. At the junction with the trunk and at the extremity its
diameter was perhaps three inches; in the middle rather less than half
as much. The grey central piece, larger and darker at either end,
suggested the thought of the bare neck of a vulture.
Far away, just rising above the slope of the leaze, the distant tops of
elms, crowded with rooks’ nests (not then occupied), showed the site of
the residence of an old gentleman of whom at that time we stood in much
fear. The “Squire” of Southlands alarmed even the hardened carters’
lads as much by the prestige of a singular character as by the
chastisement he personally gave those who ventured into his domain. Not
a bird’s nest, not a nut, must be touched: still less anything that
could be called game. The watch kept was so much the stricter because
he took a personal part in it, and was often round the fields himself
armed with a great oak staff. It seemed, indeed, as if the preservation
of the game was of far greater importance to him than the shooting of
it afterwards. All the fowls of the air flocked to Southlands, as if it
had been a refuge; yet it was not a large estate. Into the forest we
had been, but Southlands was a mystery, a forbidden garden of delight,
with the terror of an oaken staff (and unknown penalties) turning this
way and that. Therefore the stunted old oak on the verge—the moss-grown
merestone by the pond marked the limit—was so favourite a
perching-place.
That beautiful afternoon I leaned both arms idly on the great bough
that crossed in front of the seat and listened to the “Caw—caw!” of the
rooks as they looked to see if the acorns were yet ripening. A dead
branch that had dropped partly into the brook was swayed continually up
and down by the current, the water as it chafed against it causing a
delicious murmur. This lulled me to sleep.
I woke with a start, and had it not been for the bough crossing in
front must have fallen twenty feet. Looking down into the meadow as
soon as my eyes were thoroughly open, I instantly noticed a covey of
young partridges a little way up beside the hedge among the molehills.
The neighbourhood of those hillocks has an attraction for many birds,
especially in winter. Then fieldfares, redwings, starlings, and others
prefer the meadows that are dotted with them. In a frost if you see a
thrush on a molehill it is very likely to thaw shortly. Moles seem to
feel the least change in the temperature of the earth; if it slackens
they begin to labour, and cast up, unwittingly, food for the thrushes.
It would have been easy to kill three or four of the covey, which was a
small one, at a single shot; but it had been a late summer, and they
were not full-grown. Besides which, they roosted, I knew, about the
middle of the meadow, and to shoot them near the roost would be certain
to break them up, and perhaps drive them into Southlands. “Good
poachers preserve their own game:” so the birds fed safely, though a
pot shot would not have seemed the crime then that it would now. While
I watched them suddenly the old bird “quat,” and ran swiftly into the
hedge, followed by the rest. A kestrel was hovering in the next meadow:
when the beat of his wings ceased he slid forward and downwards, then
rose and came over me in a bold curve. Well those little brown birds in
the blackthorn knew that, fierce as he was, he dared not swoop even on
a comparatively open bush, much less such thick covert, for fear of
ruffling his proud feathers and beating them out. Nor could he follow
them through the intricate hidden passages.
In the open water of the pond a large jack was basking in the sunshine,
just beneath the surface; and though the shot would scatter somewhat
before reaching him, he was within range. If a fish lies a few inches
under water he is quite safe from shot unless the muzzle of the gun is
so close that the pellets travel together like a bullet. At a distance
the shot is supposed to glance as it strikes the water at an angle; for
that reason the elevation of the tree was an advantage, since from it
the charge would plunge into the pool. A jack may be killed in some
depth of water when the gun is nearly perpendicularly above the mark;
but in any case the aim must be taken two inches or more, according to
circumstances, beneath the apparent position of the fish, to allow for
refraction.
Sometimes the jack when hit comes to the surface belly upwards, but
sometimes keeps down or sinks, and floats a considerable distance away
from the spot; so that in the muddy water disturbed by the shot it is
difficult to find him. If a snake be shot at while swimming he will
sometimes sink like a stone, and can be seen lying motionless at the
bottom. After we got hold of a small deer rifle we used to practise at
the snakes in the mere—aiming at the head, which is about the size of a
nut, and shows above the surface wobbling as they move. I recollect
cutting a snake’s head clean off with a ball from a pistol as he
hastened away through the grass.
In winter, when the jacks came up and lay immediately under the ice,
they could be easily shot. The pellets cut a round hole through an inch
and a half of ice. The jack now basking in the pond was the more
tempting because we had often tried to wire him in vain. The difficulty
was to get him if hit. While I was deliberating a crow came flying low
down the leaze, and alighted by the pond. His object, no doubt, was a
mussel. He could not have seen me, and yet no sooner did he touch the
ground than he looked uneasily about, sprang up, and flew straight
away, as if he had smelt danger. Had he stayed he would have been shot,
though it would have spoiled my ambush: the idea of the crows picking
out the eyes of dying creatures was always peculiarly revolting to me.
If the pond was a haunt of his, it was too near the young partridges,
which were weakly that season. A kestrel is harmless compared to a
crow. Surely the translators have wrongly rendered Don Quixote’s remark
that the English did not kill crows, believing that King Arthur,
instead of dying, was by enchantment turned into one, and so fearing to
injure the hero. Must he not have meant a rook?*
[Note: It has since been pointed out to me that the Don may have meant
a raven]
Soon afterwards something moved out of the mound into the meadow a long
distance up: it was a hare. He came slowly along beside the hedge
towards me—now stopping and looking into it as if seeking a convenient
place for a form, having doubtless been disturbed from that he had
first chosen. It was some minutes before he came within range: had I
been on the ground most likely he would have scented me, the light air
going that way; but being in the tree the wind that passed went high
over him. For this reason a tree ambush is deadly. It was necessary to
get the line of sight clear of twigs, which check and divert shot, and
to take a steady aim; for I had no second barrel, no dog, and had to
descend the tree before running. Some leaves were blackened by the
flame: the hare simply fell back, stretched his hind legs, quivered,
and lay still. Part of the leaf of a plant was fixed in his teeth; he
had just had a nibble.
With this success I was satisfied that day; but the old oak was always
a favourite resort, even when nothing particular was in hand. From
thence, too, as a base of operations, we made expeditions varying in
their object with the season of the year.
Some distance beyond the stunted oak the thick blackthorn hedge was
succeeded by a continuous strip of withy-bed bordering the brook. It
often occurred to us that by entering these withies it would be
possible to reconnoitre one side of Southlands; for the stream skirted
the lower grounds: the tall willows would conceal any one passing
through them. So one spring morning the attempt was made.
It was necessary to go on hands and knees through the mowing grass for
some yards while passing an open space where the blackthorn cover
ended, and then to leap a broad ditch that divided the withy-beds from
the meadow. The lissom willow wands parted easily and sprang back to
their places behind, leaving scarce a trace. Their slender tops rose
overhead; beneath, long dead grasses, not yet quite supplanted by the
spring growth, filled the space between. These rustled a little under
foot, but so faint a sound could scarcely have been audible outside;
and had any one noticed it it would have been attributed to a hare or a
fox moving: both are fond of lying in withy-beds when the ground is
dry.
The way to walk noiselessly is to feel with the foot before letting
your weight press on it; then the dead stick or fallen hemlock is
discovered and avoided. A dead stick cracks; the dry hollow hemlock
gives a splintering sound when crushed. These old hemlock stems were
numerous in places, together with “gicksies,” as the haymakers call a
plant that resembles it, but has a ribbed or fluted instead of a smooth
stalk. The lads use a long “gicks” cut between the joints as a tube to
blow haws or peggles at the girls. When thirsty, and no ale is handy,
the men search for one to suck up water with from the brook. It is
difficult to find one free from insects, which seem to be remarkably
fond of anything hollow. The haymakers do not use the hemlock, thinking
it would poison the water; they think, too, that drinking through a
tube is safer when they are in a great heat from the sun than any other
way.
Nor is it so easy to drink from a stream without this simple aid. If
the bank be flat it is wet, and what looks like the grass of the meadow
really grows out of the water; so that there it is not possible to be
at full length. If the bank be dry the level of the water is several
inches lower, and in endeavouring to drink the forehead is immersed;
often the water is so much lower than its banks that it is quite
impossible to drink from it lying. By the edge grasses,
water-plantains, forget-me-nots, frequently fill the space within
reach. If you brush these aside it disturbs the bottom, and the mud
rises, or a patch of brown “scum” comes up and floats away. A cup,
though gently used, generally draws some insects in with the water,
though the liquid itself be pure. Lapping with the hollowed palm
requires practice, and, unless the spot be free from weeds and of some
little depth, soon disturbs the bottom. But the tube can be inserted in
the smallest clear place, and interferes with nothing.
Each of us carried a long hazel rod, and the handle of a “squailer”
projected from Orion’s coat-pocket. For making a “squailer” a teacup
was the best mould: the cups then in use in the country were rather
larger than those at present in fashion. A ground ash sapling with the
bark on, about as thick as the little finger, pliant and tough, formed
the shaft, which was about fifteen inches long. This was held upright
in the middle of a teacup, while the mould was filled with molten lead.
It soon cooled, and left a heavy conical knob on the end of the stick.
If rightly thrown it was a deadly missile, and would fly almost as true
as a rifle ball. A rabbit or leveret could thus be knocked over; and it
was peculiarly adapted for fetching a squirrel out of a tree, because,
being so heavy at one end, it rarely lodged on the boughs, as an
ordinary stick would, but overbalanced and came down.
From the outlook of the oak some aspen trees could be seen far up in
the withy-beds; and it had been agreed that there the first essay of
the stream should be made. On arriving at these trees we paused, and
began to fix the wires on the hazel rods. The wire for fish must slip
very easily, and the thinner it is, if strong enough, the better,
because it takes a firmer grip. A single wire will do; but two thin
ones are preferable. Thin copper wire is as flexible as thread. Brass
wire is not so good; it is stiffer, and too conspicuous in the water.
At the shank end a stout string is attached in the middle of its
length. Then the wire is placed against the rod, lying flat upon it for
about six inches. The strings are now wound round tightly in opposite
directions, binding it to the stick, so that at the top the ends cross
and are in position to tie in the slight notch cut for the purpose. A
loop that will allow four fingers to enter together is about large
enough, though of course it must be varied according to the size of the
jack in view. Heavy jacks are not often wired, and scarcely ever in
brooks.
For jack the shape of the loop should be circular; for trout it should
be oval, and considerably larger in proportion to the apparent bulk of
the fish. Jack are straight-grown and do not thicken much in the
middle; with trout it is different. The noose should be about six
inches from the top of the rod. Orion said he would go twenty yards
farther up; I went direct from the centre of the withy-bed to the
stream.
The bank rose a little above the level of the withy-bed; it was a broad
mound full of ash stoles and willow—the sort that is grown for poles.
At that spot the vines of wild hops had killed all the underwood,
leaving open spaces between the stoles; the vines were matted so
thickly that they hid the ground. This was too exposed a place, so I
went back and farther up till I could just hear Orion rustling through
the hemlocks. Here the dead grass and some elder bushes afforded
shelter, and the water could be approached unseen.
It was about six or eight inches deep; the opposite shore was bordered
for several yards out with flags and rushes. The cattle nibbled their
tender tops off, as far as they could reach; farther out they were
pushing up straight and pointed. The rib and groove of the flag so
closely resemble those of the ancient bayonet that it might be supposed
the weapon was modelled from the plant. Indoors among the lumber there
was a rusty old bayonet that immediately called forth the comparison:
the modern make seem more triangular.
The rushes grew nearer the shore of the meadow—the old ones yellow, the
young green: in places this fringe of rush and sedge and flag must have
been five or six yards wide, and it extended as far as could be seen up
the brook. No doubt the cattle trod in the edge of the firm ground by
degrees every year to get at the water, and thus widened the marsh. It
was easy to understand now why all the water-fowl, teal and duck,
moorhen and snipe, seemed in winter to make in this direction.
The ducks especially exercised all our ingenuity and quite exhausted
our patience in the effort to get near them in winter. In the large
water-meadows a small flock sometimes remained all day: it was possible
to approach near enough by stalking behind the hedges to see the colour
of the mallards; but they were always out of gunshot. This place must
be full of teal then; as for moorhens, there were signs of them
everywhere, and several feeding in the grass. The thought of the sport
to be got here when the frosty days came was enough to make one wild.
After a long look across, I began to examine the stream near at hand:
the rushes and flags had forced the clear sweet current away from the
meadow, so that it ran just under the bank. I was making out the brown
sticks at the bottom, when there was a slight splash—caused by Orion
about ten yards farther up—and almost at the same instant something
shot down the brook towards me. He had doubtless landed a jack, and its
fellow rushed away. Under a large dead bough that had fallen across its
top in the stream I saw the long slender fish lying a few feet from the
bank, motionless save for the gentle curving wave of the tail edges. So
faint was that waving curl that it seemed caused rather by the flow of
the current than the volition of the fish. The wings of the swallow
work the whole of the longest summer day, but the fins of the fish in
running water are never still: day and night they move continuously.
By slow degrees I advanced the hazel rod, keeping it at first near to
and parallel with the bank, because jack do not like anything that
stretches across them; and I imagine other fish have the same dislike
to right angles. The straight shadow even seems to arouse suspicion—no
boughs are ever straight. Perhaps, if it were possible to angle without
a rod, there would be more success, particularly in small streams. But
after getting the stick almost out far enough, it became evident that
the dead branch would not let me slip the wire into the water in front
of the jack in the usual way. So I had to draw it back again as
gradually as it had been put forth.
With fish everything must be done gradually and without a jerk. A
sudden jerking movement immediately alarms them. If you walk gently by
they remain still, but start or lift the arm quickly and they dart for
deep water. The object of withdrawing the rod was to get at and enlarge
the loop in order that it might be slipped over his tail, since the
head was protected by the bough. It is a more delicate operation to
pass the wire up from behind; it has to go farther before the spot that
allows a firm grip is reached, and fish are well aware that natural
objects such as twigs float down with the current. Anything, therefore,
approaching from behind or rubbing upwards is suspicious. As this fish
had just been startled, it would not do to let the wire touch him at
all.
After enlarging the loop I put the rod slowly forth again, worked the
wire up stream, slipped the noose over his tail, and gently got it up
to the balance of the fish. Waiting a moment to get the elbow over the
end of the rod so as to have a good leverage, I gave a sudden jerk
upwards, and felt the weight instantly. But the top of the rod struck
the overhanging bough, and there was my fish, hung indeed, but still in
the water near the surface. Nor could I throw it on the bank, because
of the elder bushes. So I shortened the rod, pulling it in towards me
quickly and dragging the jack through the water. The pliant wire had
cut into the scales and skin—he might have been safely left suspended
over the stream all day; but in the eagerness of the moment I was not
satisfied till I had him up on the mound.
We did not see much of Southlands, because the withy-beds were on the
lowest ground; but there were six jacks strung on a twisted withy when
we got back to the stunted oak and rested there tasting acid sorrel
leaves.