Forgotten Treasures #15: FISHIN' JIMMY--PART 2

II.

But it was of another kind of knowledge he oftenest spoke, and of which I
shall try to tell you, in his own words as nearly as possible.

First let me say that if there should seem to be the faintest tinge of
irreverence in aught I write, I tell my story badly. There was no
irreverence in Fishin' Jimmy. He possessed a deep and profound veneration
for all things spiritual and heavenly; but it was the veneration of a little
child, mingled as is that child's with perfect confidence and utter
frankness. And he used the dialect of the country in which he lived.

"As I was tellin' ye," he said, "I allers loved fishin' an' knowd 't was the
best thing in the hull airth. I knowed it larnt ye more about creeters an'
yarbs an' stuns an' water than books could tell ye. I knowed it made folks
patienter an' commonsenser an' weather-wiser an' cuter gen'ally; gin 'em
more fac'lty than all the school larnin' in creation. I knowed it was more
fillin' than vittles, more rousin' than whisky, more soothin' than lodlum.
I knowed it cooled ye off when ye was het, an' het ye when ye was cold. I
knowed all that, o' course--any fool knows it. But--will ye b'l'eve it?--I
was more 'n twenty-one year old, a man growed, 'fore I foun' out why 't was
that away. Father an' mother was Christian folks, good out-an'-out
Calv'nist Baptists from over East'n way. They fetched me up right, made me
go to meetin' an' read a chapter every Sunday, an' say a hymn Sat'day night
a'ter washin'; an' I useter say my prayers mos' nights. I wa'n't a bad boy
as boys go. But nobody thought o' tellin' me the one thing, jest the one
single thing, that 'd ha' made all the diffunce. I knowed about God, an'
how he made me an' made the airth, an' everything an' once I got thinkin'
about that, an' I asked my father if God made the fishes. He said 'course
he did, the sea an' all that in 'em is; but somehow that did n't seem to
mean nothin' much to me, an' I lost my int'rist agin. An' I read the
Scripter account o' Jonah an' the big fish, an' all that in Job about
pullin' out levi'thing with a hook an' stickin' fish spears in his head, an'
some part in them queer books nigh the end o' the ole Test'ment about
fish-ponds an' fish-gates an' fish-pools, an' how the fishers shall
l'ment--everything I could pick out about fishin' an' see; but it did n't
come home to me; 't wa'n't my kind o' fishin' an' I did n't seem ter sense
it.

"But one day--it's more 'n forty year ago now, but I rec'lect it same 's 't
was yest'day, a' I shall rec'lect it forty thousand year from now if 'm
'round, an' I guess I shall be--I heerd--suthin'--diffunt. I was down in
the village one Sunday; it wa'n't very good fishin'--the streams was too
full; an' I thought I 'd jest look into the meetin'-house 's I went by. "T
was the ole union meetin'-house down to the corner, ye know, an' they had
n't got no reg'lar s'pply, an' ye never knowed what sort ye 'd hear, so 't
was kind o' excitin'.

"'T was late, 'most 'leven o'clock, an' the sarm'n had begun. There was a
strange man a-preachin', some one from over to the hotel. I never heerd his
name, I never seed him from that day to this; but I knowed his face. Queer
enough I 'd seed him a-fishin'. I never knowed he was a min'ster; he did
n't look like one. He went about like a real fisherman, with ole clo'es an'
an ole hat with hooks stuck in it, an' big rubber boots, an' he fished,
reely fished, I mean--ketched 'em. I guess 't was that made me liss'n a
leetle sharper 'n us'al, for I never seed a fishin' min'ster afore. Elder
Jacks'n, he said 't was a sinf'l waste o' time, an' ole Parson Loomis, he 'd
an idee it was cruel a' onmarciful; so I thought I 'd jest see what this man
'd preach about, an' I settled down to liss'n to the sarm'n.

"But there wa'n't no sarm'n; not what I 'd been raised to think was the on'y
true kind. There wa'n't no heads, no fustlys nor sec'ndlys, nor fin'ly
bruthrins, but the first think I knowed I was hearin' a story, an' 't was a
fishin' story. 'T was about Some One--I had n't the least idee then who 't
was, an' how much it all meant--Some One that was dreffle fond o' fishin'
an' fishermen, Some One that sot everythin' by the water, an' useter go
along by the lakes an' ponds, an' sail on 'em, an' talk with the men that
was fishin'. an' how the fishermen all liked him, 'nd asked his 'dvice, an'
done jest 's he telled 'em about the likeliest places to fish; an' how they
allers ketched more for mindin' him; an' how when he was a-preachin' he
would n't go into a big meetin' house an' talk to rich folks an' their wives
an' the boys an' gals playin' on the shore. An' then, best o' everythin',
he telled how when he was a-choosin' the men to go about with him an' help
him an' larn his ways so 's to come a'ter him, he fust o' all picked out the
men he 'd seen every day fishin', an' mebbe fished with hisself; for he
knowed 'em an' knowed he could trust 'em.

"An' then he telled us about the day when this preacher come along by the
lake--a dreffle sightly place, this min'ster said; he 'd seed it hisself
when he was trav'lin in them countries--an' come acrost two men he knowed
well; they was brothers, an' they was a-fishin'. An' he jest asked 'em in
his pleasant-spoken, frien'ly way--there wa'n't never sech a drawin',
takin', lovin' way with any one afor as this man had, the min'ster said--he
jest asked 'em to come along with him; an' they lay down their poles an'
their lines an' everythin', and jined him. An' then he come along a spell
further, an' he sees two boys out with their ole father, an' they was
settin' in a boat an' fixin' up their tackle, an' he asked 'em if they 'd
jine him, too, an' they jest dropped all their things, an' left the ole man
with the boat an' the fish an' the bait an' follered the preacher. I don't
tell it very good. I 've read it an' read it sence that; but I want to make
ye see how it sounded to me, how I took it, as the min'ster telled it that
summer day in Francony meetin'. Ye see I 'd no idee who the story was
about, the man put it so plain, in common kind o' talk, without any
come-to-passes an' whuffers an' thuffers, an' I never conceited 't was a
Bible narr'tive.

"An' so fust thing I knowed I says to myself, 'That 's the kind o' teacher I
want. If I could come acrost a man like that, I 'd jest foller him, too,
through thick an' thin.' Well, I can't put the rest on it into talk very
good; 't aint jest the kind o' thing to speak on 'fore folks, even sech good
friends as you. I aint the sort to go back on my word,--fishermen aint, ye
know,--an' what I 'd said to myself 'fore I knowed who I was bindin' myself
to, I stuck to a'terwards when I knowed all about him. For 't aint for me
to tell ye, who've got so much more larnin' than me, that there was a
dreffle lot more to that story than the fishin' part. That lovin', givin'
up, suff'rin', dyin' part, ye know it all yerself, an' I can't kinder say
much on it, 'cept when I 'm jest all by myself, or--'long o' him.

"That a'ternoon I took my ole Bible that I had n't read much sence I growed
up, an' I went out into the woods 'long the river, an' 'stid o' fishin' I
jest sot down an' read that hull story. Now ye know it yerself by heart,
an' ye 've knowed it all yer born days, so ye can't begin to tell how new
an' 'stonishin' 't was to me, an' how findin' so much fishin' in it kinder
helped me unnerstan' an' b'l'eve it every mite, an' take it right hum to me
to foller an' live up to 's long 's I live an' breathe. Did j'ever think on
it, reely? I tell ye, his r'liging 's fishin' r'liging all through. His
friends was fishin' folks; his pulpit was a fishin' boat, or the shore o'
the lake; he loved the ponds an' streams; an' when his d'sciples went out
fishin', if he did n't go hisself with 'em, he 'd go a'ter 'em, walkin' on
the water, to cheer 'em up an' comfort 'em.

"an' he was allers 'round the water; for the story 'll say, 'he come to the
seashore,' or 'he begun to teach by the seaside,' or agin, 'he entered into
a boat,' an' he was in the stern o' the boat, asleep.'

"An' he used fish in his mir'cles. He fed that crowd o' folks on fish when
they was hungry, bought 'em from a little chap on the shore. I 've oft'n
thought how dreffle tickled that boy must 'a' ben to have him take them
fish. Mebbe they wa'n't nothin' but shiners, but the fust the little feller
'd ever ketched; an' boys set a heap on their fust ketch. He was dreffle
good to child'en, ye know. An' who 'd he come to a'ter he 'e died, an' ris
agin? Why, he come down to the shore 'fore daylight, an' looked off over
the pond to where his ole frien's was a-fishin'. Ye see they 'd gone out
jest to quiet their minds an' keep up their sperrits; ther 's nothin' like
fishin' for that, ye know, an' they 'd ben in a heap o' trubble. When they
was settin' up the night afore, worryin' an' wond'rin' an' s'misin' what
was goin' ter become on 'em without their master; Peter 'd got kinder
desprit, an' he up an' says in his quick was, says he, 'anyway, _I_ 'm goin'
a-fishin'.' An' they all see the sense on it,--any fisherman would,--an'
they says, says they, 'We 'll to 'long too.' But they did n't ketch
anythin'. I suppose they could n't fix their minds on it, an' everythin'
went wrong like. But when mornin' come creepin' up over the mountings, fust
thin' they knowed they see him on the bank, an' he called out to 'em to know
if they'd ketched anythin'. The water jest rund down my cheeks when I heerd
the min'rster tell that, an' it kinder makes my eyes wet every time I think
on 't. For 't seems 's if it might 'a' ben me in that boat, who heern that
v'ice I loved so dreffle well speak up agin so nat'ral from the bank there.
An' he east some o' their fish! O' course he done it to sot their minds
easy, to show 'em he wa'n't quite a sperrit yit, but jest their own ole
frien' who 'd ben out in the boat with 'em so many, many times. But seems
to me, jest the fac' he done it kinder makes fish an' fishin' diffunt from
any other thing in the hull airth. I tell ye them four books that gin his
story is chock full o' things that go right to the heart o'
fishermen,--nets, an' hooks, an' boats, an' the shores, an' the sea, an' the
mountings, Peter's fishin'-coat, lilies, an' sparrers, an' grass o' the
fields, an' all about the evenin' sky bein' red or lowerin', an' fair or
foul weather.

"It 's an out-doors, woodsy, county story, 'sides bein' the heav'nliest one
that was ever telled. I read the hull bible, as a duty ye know. I read the
epis'les, but somehow they don't come home to me. Paul was a great man, a
dreffle smart scholar, but he was raised in the city, I guess, an' when I go
from the gospils into Paul's writin's it 's like goin' from the woods and'
hills an' streams o' Francony into the streets of a big city like Concord or
Manch'ster."

The old man did not say much of his after life and the fruits of this
strange conversion, but his neighbors told us a great deal. They spoke of
his unselfishness, his charity, his kindly deeds; told of his visiting the
poor and unhappy, nursing the sick. They said the little children loved
him, and everyone in the village and for miles around trusted and leaned up
Fishin' Jimmy. He taught the boys to fish, sometimes the girls too; and
while learning to cast and strike, to ship the stream, they drank in
knowledge of higher things, and came to know and love Jimmy's "fishin'
r'liging." I remember they told me of a little French Canadian girl, a
poor, wretched waif, whose mother, an unknown tramp, had fallen dead in the
road near the village. The child, an untamed little heathen, was found
clinging to her mother's body in an agony of grief and rage, and fought like
a tiger when they tried to take her away. A boy in the little group
attracted to the spot, ran away, with a child's faith in his old friend, to
summon Fishin' Jimmy. He came quickly, lifted the little savage tenderly,
and carried her away.

No one witnessed the taming process, but in a few days the pair were seen
together on the margin of Black Brook, each with a fish-pole. Her dark face
was bright with interest and excitement as she took her first lesson in the
art of angling. She jabbered and chattered in her odd patois, he answered
in broadest New England dialect, but the two quite understood each other,
and though Jimmy said afterward that it was "dreffle to hear her call fish
pois'n," they were soon great friends and comrades. For weeks he kept and
cared for the child, and when she left him for a good home in Bethlehem, one
would scarcely have recognized in the gentle, affectionate girl the wild
creature of the past. Though often questioned as to the means used to
effect this change, Jimmy's explanation seemed rather vague and
unsatisfactory. "'T was fishin' done it," he said; "on'y fishin'; it allers
works. The Christian r'liging itself had to begin with fishin', ye know.

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END PART 2