Wolfgang
August 25th, 2005, 08:57 PM
A LAZY, IDLE BROOK
Part 3. THE SECRETS OF INTIMACY
THERE! I came within eight letters of telling the name of the brook, a
thing that I am firmly resolved not to do. If it were an ordinary fishless
little river, or even a stream with nothing better than grass-pike and
sunfish in it, you should have the name and welcome. But when a brook
contains speckled trout, and when their presence is known to a very few
persons who guard the secret as the dragon guarded the golden apples of the
Hesperides, and when the size of the trout is large beyond the dreams of
hope,--well, when did you know a true angler who would willingly give away
the name of such a brook as that? You may find an encourager of indolence
in almost any stream of the South Side, and I wish you joy of your brook.
But if you want to catch trout in mine you must discover it for yourself, or
perhaps go with me some day, and solemnly swear secrecy.
That was the way in which the freedom of the stream was conferred upon me.
There was a small boy in the village, the son of rich but respectable
parents, and an inveterate all-round sportsman, aged fourteen years, with
whom I had formed a close intimacy. I was telling him about the pleasure of
exploring the idle brook, and expressing the opinion that in bygone days,
(in that mythical "forty years ago" when all fishing was good), there must
have been trout in it. A certain look came over the boy's face. He gazed
at me solemnly, as if he were searching the inmost depths of my character
before he spoke.
"Say, do you want to know something?"
I assured him that an increase of knowledge was the chief aim of my life.
"Do you promise you won't tell?"
I expressed my readiness to be bound to silence by the most awful pledge
that the law would sanction.
"Wish you may die?"
I not only wished that I might die, but was perfectly certain that I would
die.
"Well, what's the matter with catching trout in that brook now? Do you want
to go with me next Saturday? I saw four or five bully ones last week, and
got three."
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.
______________________________________________
End, A LAZY, IDLE BROOK
Wolfgang
This work is in the public domain. According to the license agreement at my
source, I may not name that source here without including the entire license
agreement......which is much too long and dull. To the best of my
knowledge, the use of this material here does not violate either that
agreement or U.S. copyright law.
Part 3. THE SECRETS OF INTIMACY
THERE! I came within eight letters of telling the name of the brook, a
thing that I am firmly resolved not to do. If it were an ordinary fishless
little river, or even a stream with nothing better than grass-pike and
sunfish in it, you should have the name and welcome. But when a brook
contains speckled trout, and when their presence is known to a very few
persons who guard the secret as the dragon guarded the golden apples of the
Hesperides, and when the size of the trout is large beyond the dreams of
hope,--well, when did you know a true angler who would willingly give away
the name of such a brook as that? You may find an encourager of indolence
in almost any stream of the South Side, and I wish you joy of your brook.
But if you want to catch trout in mine you must discover it for yourself, or
perhaps go with me some day, and solemnly swear secrecy.
That was the way in which the freedom of the stream was conferred upon me.
There was a small boy in the village, the son of rich but respectable
parents, and an inveterate all-round sportsman, aged fourteen years, with
whom I had formed a close intimacy. I was telling him about the pleasure of
exploring the idle brook, and expressing the opinion that in bygone days,
(in that mythical "forty years ago" when all fishing was good), there must
have been trout in it. A certain look came over the boy's face. He gazed
at me solemnly, as if he were searching the inmost depths of my character
before he spoke.
"Say, do you want to know something?"
I assured him that an increase of knowledge was the chief aim of my life.
"Do you promise you won't tell?"
I expressed my readiness to be bound to silence by the most awful pledge
that the law would sanction.
"Wish you may die?"
I not only wished that I might die, but was perfectly certain that I would
die.
"Well, what's the matter with catching trout in that brook now? Do you want
to go with me next Saturday? I saw four or five bully ones last week, and
got three."
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.
______________________________________________
End, A LAZY, IDLE BROOK
Wolfgang
This work is in the public domain. According to the license agreement at my
source, I may not name that source here without including the entire license
agreement......which is much too long and dull. To the best of my
knowledge, the use of this material here does not violate either that
agreement or U.S. copyright law.