On the appointed day we made the voyage, landed at the upper bridge,
walked around by the woodpath to the railroad embankment, and began
to worm our way down through the tangled wilderness. Fly-fishing,
of course, was out of the question. The only possible method of
angling was to let the line, baited with a juicy "garden hackle,"
drift down the current as far as possible before you, under the
alder-branches and the cat-briers, into the holes and corners of the
stream. Then, if there came a gentle tug on the rod, you must
strike, to one side or the other, as the branches might allow, and
trust wholly to luck for a chance to play the fish. Many a trout we
lost that day,--the largest ones, of course,--and many a hook was
embedded in a sunken log, or hopelessly entwined among the boughs
overhead. But when we came out at the bridge, very wet and
disheveled, we had seven pretty fish, the heaviest about half a
pound. The Fairy Dell yielded a brace of smaller ones, and
altogether we were reasonably happy as we took up the oars and
pushed out upon the open stream.
But if there were fish above, why should there not be fish below?
It was about sunset, the angler's golden hour. We were already
committed to the crime of being late for supper. It would add
little to our guilt and much to our pleasure to drift slowly down
the middle of the brook and cast the artful fly in the deeper
corners on either shore. So I took off the vulgar bait-hook and put
on a delicate leader with a Queen of the Water for a tail-fly and a
Yellow Sally for a dropper,--innocent little confections of feathers
and tinsel, dressed on the tiniest hooks, and calculated to tempt
the appetite or the curiosity of the most capricious trout.
For a long time the whipping of the water produced no result, and it
seemed as if the dainty style of angling were destined to prove less
profitable than plain fishing with a worm. But presently we came to
an elbow of the brook, just above the estuary, where there was quite
a stretch of clear water along the lower side, with two half-sunken
logs sticking out from the bank, against which the current had
drifted a broad raft of weeds. I made a long cast, and sent the
tail-fly close to the edge of the weeds. There was a swelling
ripple on the surface of the water, and a noble fish darted from
under the logs, dashed at the fly, missed it, and whirled back to
his shelter.
"Gee!" said the boy, "that was a whacker! He made a wake like a
steamboat."
It was a moment for serious thought. What was best to be done with
that fish? Leave him to settle down for the night and come back
after him another day? Or try another cast for him at once? A fish
on Saturday evening is worth two on Monday morning. I changed the
Queen of the Water for a Royal Coachman tied on a number fourteen
hook,--white wings, peacock body with a belt of crimson silk,--and
sent it out again, a foot farther up the stream and a shade closer
to the weeds. As it settled on the water, there was a flash of gold
from the shadow beneath the logs, and a quick turn of the wrist made
the tiny hook fast in the fish. He fought wildly to get back to the
shelter of his logs, but the four ounce rod had spring enough in it
to hold him firmly away from that dangerous retreat. Then he
splurged up and down the open water, and made fierce dashes among
the grassy shallows, and seemed about to escape a dozen times. But
at last his force was played out; he came slowly towards the boat,
turning on his side, and I netted him in my hat.
"Bully for us;" said the boy, "we got him! What a dandy!"
It was indeed one of the handsomest fish that I have ever taken on
the South Side,--just short of two pounds and a quarter,--small
head, broad tail, and well-rounded sides coloured with orange and
blue and gold and red. A pair of the same kind, one weighing two
pounds and the other a pound and three quarters, were taken by
careful fishing down the lower end of the pool, and then we rowed
home through the dusk, pleasantly convinced that there is no virtue
more certainly rewarded than the patience of anglers, and entirely
willing to put up with a cold supper and a mild reproof for the sake
of sport.
Of course we could not resist the temptation to show those fish to
the neighbours. But, equally of course, we evaded the request to
give precise information as to the precise place where they were
caught. Indeed, I fear that there must have been something confused
in our description of where we had been on that afternoon. Our
carefully selected language may have been open to misunderstanding.
At all events, the next day, which was the Sabbath, there was a row
of eager but unprincipled anglers sitting on a bridge OVER ANOTHER
STREAM, and fishing for trout with worms and large expectations, but
without visible results.
The boy and I agreed that if this did not teach a good moral lesson
it was not our fault.
I obtained the boy's consent to admit the partner of my life's joys
and two of our children to the secret of the brook, and thereafter,
when we visited it, we took the fly-rod with us. If by chance
another boat passed us in the estuary, we were never fishing, but
only gathering flowers, or going for a picnic, or taking
photographs. But when the uninitiated ones had passed by, we would
get out the rod again, and try a few more casts.
One day in particular I remember, when Graygown and little Teddy
were my companions. We really had no hopes of angling, for the hour
was mid-noon, and the day was warm and still. But suddenly the
trout, by one of those unaccountable freaks which make their
disposition so interesting and attractive, began to rise all about
us in a bend of the stream.
"Look!" said Teddy; "wherever you see one of those big smiles on the
water, I believe there's a fish!"
Fortunately the rod was at hand. Graygown and Teddy managed the
boat and the landing-net with consummate skill. We landed no less
than a dozen beautiful fish at that most unlikely hour and then
solemnly shook hands all around.
There is a peculiar pleasure in doing a thing like this, catching
trout in a place where nobody thinks of looking for them, and at an
hour when everybody believes they cannot be caught. It is more fun
to take one good fish out of an old, fished-out stream, near at hand
to the village, than to fill a basket from some far-famed and well-
stocked water. It is the unexpected touch that tickles our sense of
pleasure. While life lasts, we are always hoping for it and
expecting it. There is no country so civilized, no existence so
humdrum, that there is not room enough in it somewhere for a lazy,
idle brook, an encourager of indolence, with hope of happy
surprises.
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