Fishing - Forgotten Treasures #11: PLAIN FISHING--PART 1

From:
AMOS KILBRIGHT, HIS ADSCITITIOUS EXPERIENCES, WITH OTHER STORIES*

by Frank R. Stockton

"Well, sir," said old Peter, as he came out on the porch with his pipe, "so
you came here to go fishin'?"

Peter Gruse was the owner of the farm-house where I had arrived that day,
just before supper-time. He was a short, strong-built old man, with a pair
of pretty daughters, and little gold rings in his ears. Two things
distinguished him from the farmers in the country round about: one was the
rings in his ears, and the other was the large and comfortable house in
which he kept his pretty daughters. The other farmers in that region had
fine large barns for their cattle and horses, but very poor houses for their
daughters. Old Peter's ear-rings were indirectly connected with his house.
He had not always lived among those mountains. He had been on the sea, where
his ears were decorated, and he had travelled a good deal on land, where he
had ornamented his mind with many ideas which were not in general use in the
part of his State in which he was born. His house stood a little back from
the high road, and if a traveller wished to be entertained, Peter was
generally willing to take him in, provided he had left his wife and family
at home. The old man himself had no objection to wives and children, but his
two pretty daughters had.

These young women had waited on their father and myself at supper-time, one
continually bringing hot griddle cakes, and the other giving me every
opportunity to test the relative merits of the seven different kinds of
preserved fruit which, in little glass plates, covered the otherwise
unoccupied spaces on the tablecloth. The latter, when she found that there
was no further possible way of serving us, presumed to sit down at the
corner of the table and begin her supper. But in spite of this apparent
humility, which was only a custom of the country, there was that in the
general air of the pretty daughters which left no doubt in the mind of the
intelligent observer that they stood at the wheel in that house. There was a
son of fourteen, who sat at table with us, but he did not appear to count as
a member of the family.

"Yes," I answered, "I understood that there was good fishing hereabout, and,
at any rate, I should like to spend a few days among these hills and
mountains."

"Well," said Peter, "there's trout in some of our streams, though not as
many as there used to be, and there's hills a plenty, and mountains too, if
you choose to walk fur enough. They're a good deal furder off than they
look. What did you bring with you to fish with?"

"Nothing at all," I answered. "I was told in the town that you were a great
fisherman, and that you could let me have all the tackle I would need."

"Upon my word," said old Peter, resting his pipe-hand on his knee and
looking steadfastly at me, "you're the queerest fisherman I've see'd yet.
Nigh every year, some two or three of 'em stop here in the fishin' season,
and there was never a man who didn't bring his jinted pole, and his reels,
and his lines, and his hooks, and his dry-goods flies, and his whiskey-flask
with a long strap to it. Now, if you want all these things, I haven't got
'em."

"Whatever you use yourself will suit me," I answered.

"All right, then," said he. "I'll do the best I can for you in the mornin'.
But it's plain enough to me that you're not a game fisherman, or you
wouldn't come here without your tools."

To this remark I made answer to the effect that, though I was very fond of
fishing, my pleasure in it did not depend upon the possession of all the
appliances of professional sport.

"Perhaps you think," said the old man, "from the way I spoke, that I don't
believe them fellers with the jinted poles can ketch fish, but that ain't
so. That old story about the little boy with the pin-hook who ketched all
the fish, while the gentleman with the modern improvements, who stood
alongside of him, kep' throwin' out his beautiful flies and never got
nothin', is a pure lie. The fancy chaps, who must have ev'rythin' jist so,
gen'rally gits fish. But for all that, I don't like their way of fishin',
and I take no stock in it myself. I've been fishin', on and off, ever since
I was a little boy, and I've caught nigh every kind there is, from the big
jew-fish and cavalyoes down South, to the trout and minnies round about
here. But when I ketch a fish, the first thing I do is to try to git him on
the hook, and the next thing is to git him out of the water jist as soon as
I kin. I don't put in no time worryin' him. There's only two animals in the
world that likes to worry smaller creeturs a good while afore they kill 'em;
one is the cat, and the other is what they call the game fisherman. This
kind of a feller never goes after no fish that don't mind being ketched. He
goes fur them kinds that loves their home in the water and hates most to
leave it, and he makes it jist as hard fur 'em as he kin. What the game
fisher likes is the smallest kind of a hook, the thinnest line, and a fish
that it takes a good while to weaken. The longer the weak'nin' business kin
be spun out, the more the sport. The idee is to let the fish think there's a
chance fur him to git away. That's jist like the cat with her mouse. She
lets the little creetur hop off, but the minnit he gits fur enough away, she
jumps on him and jabs him with her claws, and then, if there's any game left
in him, she lets him try again. Of course the game fisher could have a
strong line and a stout pole and git his fish in a good sight quicker, if he
wanted to, but that wouldn't be sport. He couldn't give him the butt and
spin him out, and reel him in, and let him jump and run till his pluck is
clean worn out. Now, I likes to git my fish ashore with all the pluck in
'em. It makes 'em taste better. And as fur fun, I'll be bound I've had jist
as much of that, and more, too, than most of these fellers who are so
dreadful anxious to have everythin' jist right, and think they can't go
fishin' till they've spent enough money to buy a suit of Sunday clothes. As
a gen'ral rule they're a solemn lot, and work pretty hard at their fun. When
I work I want to be paid fur it, and when I go in fur fun I want to take it
easy and cheerful. Now I wouldn't say so much agen these fellers," said old
Peter, as he arose and put his empty pipe on a little shelf under the
porch-roof, "if it wasn't for one thing, and that is, that they think that
their kind of fishin' is the only kind worth considerin'. The way they look
down upon plain Christian fishin' is enough to rile a hitchin'-post. I don't
want to say nothin' agen no man's way of attendin' to his own affairs,
whether it's kitchen-gardenin', or whether it's fishin', if he says nothin'
agen my way; but when he looks down on me, and grins at me, I want to haul
myself up, and grin at him, if I kin. And in this case, I kin. I s'pose the
house-cat and the cat-fisher (by which I don't mean the man who fishes for
cat-fish) was both made as they is, and they can't help it; but that don't
give 'em no right to put on airs before other bein's, who gits their meat
with a square kill. Good-night. And sence I've talked so much about it, I've
a mind to go fishin' with you to-morrow myself."

The next morning found old Peter of the same mind, and after breakfast he
proceeded to fit me out for a day of what he called "plain Christian
trout-fishin'." He gave me a reed rod, about nine feet long, light, strong,
and nicely balanced. The tackle he produced was not of the fancy order, but
his lines were of fine strong linen, and his hooks were of good shape, clean
and sharp, and snooded to the lines with a neatness that indicated the hand
of a man who had been where he learned to wear little gold rings in his
ears.

"Here are some of these feather insects," he said, "which you kin take along
if you like." And he handed me a paper containing a few artificial flies.
"They're pretty nat'ral," he said, "and the hooks is good. A man who came
here fishin' gave 'em to me, but I shan't want 'em to-day. At this time of
year grasshoppers is the best bait in the kind of place where we're goin' to
fish. The stream, after it comes down from the mountain, runs through half a
mile of medder land before it strikes into the woods agen. A grasshopper is
a little creetur that's got as much conceit as if his jinted legs was
fish-poles, and he thinks he kin jump over this narrer run of water whenever
he pleases; but he don't always do it, and then if he doesn't git snapped up
by the trout that lie along the banks in the medder, he is floated along
into the woods, where there's always fish enough to come to the second
table."

Having got me ready, Peter took his own particular pole, which he assured me
he had used for eleven years, and hooking on his left arm a good-sized
basket, which his elder pretty daughter had packed with cold meat, bread,
butter, and preserves, we started forth for a three-mile walk to the
fishing-ground. The day was a favorable one for our purpose, the sky being
sometimes over-clouded, which was good for fishing, and also for walking on
a highroad; and sometimes bright, which was good for effects of
mountain-scenery. Not far from the spot where old Peter proposed to begin
our sport, a small frame-house stood by the roadside, and here the old man
halted and entered the open door without knocking or giving so much as a
premonitory stamp. I followed, imitating my companion in leaving my pole
outside, which appeared to be the only ceremony that the etiquette of those
parts required of visitors. In the room we entered, a small man in his
shirt-sleeves sat mending a basket-handle. He nodded to Peter, and Peter
nodded to him.

"We've come up a-fishin'," said the old man. "Kin your boys give us some
grasshoppers?"

"I don't know that they've got any ready ketched," said he, "for I reckon I
used what they had this mornin'. But they kin git you some. Here, Dan, you
and Sile go and ketch Mr. Gruse and this young man some grasshoppers. Take
that mustard-box, and see that you git it full."

Peter and I now took seats, and the conversation began about a black cow
which Peter had to sell, and which the other was willing to buy if the old
man would trade for sheep, which animals, however, the basket-mender did not
appear just at that time to have in his possession. As I was not very much
interested in this subject, I walked to the back-door and watched two small
boys in scanty shirts and trousers, and ragged straw hats, who were darting
about in the grass catching grasshoppers, of which insects, judging by the
frequent pounces of the boys, there seemed a plentiful supply.

"Got it full?" said their father, when the boys came in.

"Crammed," said Dan.

Old Peter took the little can, pressed the top firmly on, put it in his
coat-tail pocket, and rose to go. "You'd better think about that cow,
Barney," said he. He said nothing to the boys about the box of bait; but I
could not let them catch grasshoppers for us for nothing, and I took a dime
from my pocket, and gave it to Dan. Dan grinned, and Sile looked sheepishly
happy, and at the sight of the piece of silver an expression of interest
came over the face of the father. "Wait a minute," said he, and he went into
a little room that seemed to be a kitchen. Returning, he brought with him a
small string of trout. "Do you want to buy some fish?" he said. "These is
nice fresh ones. I ketched 'em this mornin'."

To offer to sell fish to a man who is just about to go out to catch them for
himself might, in most cases, be considered an insult, but it was quite
evident that nothing of the kind was intended by Barney. He probably thought
that if I bought grasshoppers, I might buy fish. "You kin have 'em for a
quarter," he said.

It was derogatory to my pride to buy fish at such a moment, but the man
looked very poor, and there was a shade of anxiety on his face which touched
me. Old Peter stood by without saying a word. "It might be well," I said,
turning to him, "to buy these fish, for we may not catch enough for supper."

"Such things do happen," said the old man.

"Well," said I, "if we have these we shall feel safe in any case." And I
took the fish and gave the man a quarter. It was not, perhaps, a
professional act, but the trout were well worth the money, and I felt that I
was doing a deed of charity.

Old Peter and I now took our rods, and crossed the road into an enclosed
field, and thence into a wide stretch of grass land, bounded by hills in
front of us and to the right, while a thick forest lay to the left. We had
walked but a short distance, when Peter said: "I'll go down into the woods,
and try my luck there, and you'd better go along up stream, about a quarter
of a mile, to where it's rocky. P'raps you ain't used to fishin' in the
woods, and you might git your line cotched. You'll find the trout'll bite in
the rough water."

"Where is the stream?" I asked.

"This is it," he said, pointing to a little brook, which was scarcely too
wide for me to step across, "and there's fish right here, but they're hard
to ketch, fur they git plenty of good livin' and are mighty sassy about
their eatin'. But you kin ketch 'em up there."

Old Peter now went down toward the woods, while I walked up the little
stream. I had seen trout-brooks before, but never one so diminutive as this.
However, when I came nearer to the point where the stream issued from
between two of the foot-hills of the mountains, which lifted their
forest-covered heights in the distance, I found it wider and shallower,
breaking over its rocky bottom in sparkling little cascades.

Fishing in such a jolly little stream, surrounded by this mountain scenery,
and with the privileges of the beautiful situation all to myself, would have
been a joy to me if I had had never a bite. But no such ill-luck befell me.
Peter had given me the can of grasshoppers after putting half of them into
his own bait-box, and these I used with much success. It was grasshopper
season, and the trout were evidently on the lookout for them. I fished in
the ripples under the little waterfalls; and every now and then I drew out a
lively trout. Most of these were of moderate size, and some of them might
have been called small. The large ones probably fancied the forest shades,
where old Peter went. But all I caught were fit for the table, and I was
very well satisfied with the result of my sport.

About noon I began to feel hungry, and thought it time to look up the old
man, who had the lunch-basket. I walked down the bank of the brook, and some
time before I reached the woods I came to a place where it expanded to a
width of about ten feet. The water here was very clear, and the motion
quiet, so that I could easily see to the bottom, which did not appear to be
more than a foot below the surface. Gazing into this transparent water, as I
walked, I saw a large trout glide across the stream, and disappear under the
grassy bank which overhung the opposite side. I instantly stopped. This was
a much larger fish than any I had caught, and I determined to try for him.

I stepped back from the bank, so as to be out of sight, and put a fine
grasshopper on my hook; then I lay, face downward, on the grass, and worked
myself slowly forward until I could see the middle of the stream; then
quietly raising my pole, I gave my grasshopper a good swing, as if he had
made a wager to jump over the stream at its widest part. But as he certainly
would have failed in such an ambitious endeavor, especially if he had been
caught by a puff of wind, I let him come down upon the surface of the water,
a little beyond the middle of the brook. Grasshoppers do not sink when they
fall into the water, and so I kept this fellow upon the surface, and gently
moved him along, as if, with all the conceit taken out of him by the result
of his ill-considered leap, he was ignominiously endeavoring to swim to
shore. As I did this, I saw the trout come out from under the bank, move
slowly toward the grasshopper, and stop directly under him. Trembling with
anxiety and eager expectation, I endeavored to make the movements of the
insect still more natural, and, as far as I was able, I threw into him a
sudden perception of his danger, and a frenzied desire to get away. But,
either the trout had had all the grasshoppers he wanted, or he was able,
from long experience, to perceive the difference between a natural
exhibition of emotion and a histrionic imitation of it, for he slowly
turned, and, with a few slight movements of his tail, glided back under the
bank. In vain did the grasshopper continue his frantic efforts to reach the
shore; in vain did he occasionally become exhausted, and sink a short
distance below the surface; in vain did he do everything that he knew, to
show that he appreciated what a juicy and delicious morsel he was, and how
he feared that the trout might yet be tempted to seize him; the fish did not
come out again.

Then I withdrew my line, and moved back from the stream. I now determined to
try Mr. Trout with a fly, and I took out the paper old Peter Gruse had given
me. I did not know exactly what kind of winged insects were in order at this
time of the year, but I was sure that yellow butterflies were not particular
about just what month it was, so long as the sun shone warmly. I therefore
chose that one of Peter's flies which was made of the yellowest feathers,
and, removing the snood and hook from my line, I hastily attached this fly,
which was provided with a hook quite suitable for my desired prize.
Crouching on the grass, I again approached the brook. Gaily flitting above
the glassy surface of the water, in all the fancied security of tender youth
and innocence, came my yellow fly. Backward and forward over the water he
gracefully flew, sometimes rising a little into the air, as if to view the
varied scenery of the woods and mountains, and then settling for a moment
close to the surface, to better inspect his glittering image as it came up
from below, and showing in his every movement his intense enjoyment of
summer-time and life.

End, Part 1.

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*New York, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1888.