Chapter VI: Part 6

There is a peculiar excitement in it, which perhaps arises from somewhat of the same causes which make the interest in searching for ancient treasures, opening Egyptian tombs and digging into old ruins. One does not know what is under the surface. There may be something or there may be nothing. He tries, and the rush of something startles every nerve. Let no man laugh at a comparison of trout-fishing with antiquarian researches. I know a man who has done a great deal of both, and who scarcely knows which is the most absorbing or most remunerating; for each enriches mind and body, each gratifies the most refined taste, each becomes a passion unless the pursuer guard his enthusiasm and moderate his desire.

* * * * *

To you, my friend, who know nothing of the gentle and purifying association of the angler’s life, these may seem strange notions—to some, indeed, they may even sound profane. But the angler for whom I write will not so think them, nor may I, who, thinking these same thoughts, have cast my line on the sea of Galilee, and taken the descendants of old fish in the swift waters of the Jordan.

Trout fishing is employment for all men, of all minds. It tends to dreamy life, and it leads to much thought and reflection. I do not know in any book or story of modern times a more touching and exquisite scene than that which Mrs. Gordon gives in her admirable biography of her father, the leonine Christopher North, when the feeble old man waved his rod for the last time over the Dochart, where he had taken trout from his boyhood. Shall we ever look upon his like again? He was a giant among men of intellectual greatness. Of all anglers since apostolic days, he was the greatest; and there is no angler who does not look to him with veneration and love, while the English language will forever possess higher value that he has lived and written. It would be thought very strange were one to say that Wilson would never have been half the man he was were he not an angler. But he would have said so himself, and I am not sure but he did say so, and, whether he did or not, I have no doubt of the truth of the saying.

It has happened to me to fish the Dochart, from the old inn at Luib down to the bridge, and the form of the great Christopher was forever before me along the bank, and in the rapids, making his last casts as Mrs. Gordon here so tenderly describes him:

“Had my father been able to endure the fatigue, we too would have had something to boast of, but he was unable to do more than loiter by the river-side, close in the neighborhood of the inn—never without his rod.”

“How now do his feet touch the heather? Not, as of old, with a bound, but with slow and unsteady step, supported on the one hand by his stick, while the other carries his rod. The breeze gently moves his locks, no longer glittering with the light of life, but dimmed by its decay. Yet are his shoulders broad and unbent. The lion-like presence is somewhat softened down, but not gone. He surely will not venture into the deeps of the water, for only one hand is free for a ‘cast.’ and those large stones, now slippery with moss, are dangerous stumbling-blocks in the way. Besides, he promised his daughters he would not wade, but, on the contrary, walk quietly with them by the river’s edge, there gliding ‘at its own sweet will,’ Silvery band of pebbled shore leading to loamy colored pools, dark as the glow of a southern eye, how could he resist the temptation of near approach? In he goes, up to the ankles, then to the knees, tottering every other step, but never falling. Trout after trout he catches, small ones certainly, but plenty of them. Into his pocket with them all this time, manouvering in the most skilful manner both stick and rod; until weary, he is obliged to rest on the bank, sitting with his feet in the water, laughing at his daughters’ horror, and obstinately continuing the sport in spite of all remonstrance. At last he gives in and retires. Wonderful to say, he did not seem to suffer from these imprudent liberties.”

And Mrs. Gordon gives us another exquisite picture in the very last day of the grand old Christopher:

* * * “And then he gathered around him, when the spring mornings brought gay jets of sunshine into the little room where he lay, the relics of a youthful passion, one that with him never grew old. It was an affecting sight to see him busy, nay, quite absorbed with the fishing tackle scattered about his bed, propped up with pillows—his noble head, yet glorious with its flowing locks, carefully combed by attentive hands, and falling on each side of his unfaded face. How neatly he picked out each elegantly dressed fly from its little bunch, drawing it out with trembling hand along the white coverlet, and then replacing it in his pocket-book, he would tell ever and anon of the streams he used to fish in of old, and of the deeds he had performed in his childhood and youth.”

There is no angler who will not appreciate the beauty of these pictures, and I do not believe any one of us, retaining his mental faculties, will fail, in extremest age, to recall with the keenest enjoyment, of which memory is capable, the scenes of our happiest sport.

Was Peter less or more than man? Was John not of like passions with ourselves? Believe me, the old dweller on Patmos, the old Bishop of Ephesus, lingering between the memories of his Lord in Galilee and the longing for Him to come quickly yet again, saw often before his dim eyes the ripple on Gennesaret and the flashing scales of the silver fish that had gladdened him many a time before he knew the Master.

It is one of the most pleasant and absorbing thoughts which possess the traveller in those regions, that the child Christ was a child among the hills of Galilee, and loved them with all the gentle fervor of his human soul. Doubtless many times before He had challenged the fisher on the sea with that same question which we anglers so frequently hear, “Have you taken any fish?” He may have often seen Peter and the others at their work. Perhaps sometimes He had talked with them, and, it may well be, gone with them on the sea, and helped them. Por they were kindly men, as fishermen are always in all countries, and they loved to talk of their work, and of a thousand other things, of which, in their contemplative lives, they had thought without talking.

In an age when few men were learned, and, in fact, few in any grade or walk of life could even read or write, I am inclined to think there was no class from whom better trained intellects could be selected than from among these thoughtful fishermen. They had doubtless the Oriental characteristics of calmness and reserve, and these had been somewhat modified by their employment. Given to sober reflection, patient to investigate, quick to trust when their faith was demanded by one whom they respected, slow to act when haste was not necessary, prompt and swift on any emergency, filled full of love for nature, all harsh elements of character softened into a deep benevolence and pity and love—such are the fishermen of our day, and such, I doubt not, were the fishermen of old. They were men with whom a mother would willingly trust her young boy, to whom he would become attached, with whom he would enjoy talking, and, above all, who would pour out their very souls in talking with him, when among their fellow-men they would be reserved, diffident, and silent. They were men, too, who would recognize in the boy the greatness of his lineage, the divine shining out from his eyes. Who shall prevail to imagine the pleasantness of those days on the sea when Peter and John talked with the holy boy, as they waited for the fish, and their boat rocked to the winds that came down from Lebanon. Who can say that there were not some memories of those days, as well as of the others when we know Christ was with him, which, when he was tired of the waiting, led Peter to say, “I go a-fishing!”

I believe that he went a-fishing because he felt exactly as I have felt, exactly as scores of men have felt who knew the charm of the gentle art, as we now call it. The other has such attraction. Men love hunting, love boating, love games of varied sorts, love many amusements of many kinds, but I do not know of any like fishing to which men go for relief in weariness, for rest after labor, for solace in sorrow. I can well understand how those sad men, not yet fully appreciating the grand truth that their Master had risen from the dead, believing; yet doubting, how even Thomas, who had so lately seen the wounds and heard the voice; how even John, loving and loved, who had rejoiced a week ago in Jerusalem at the presence of the triumphant Lord; how Peter, always fearful; how Nathanael, full of impulsive faith, how each and all of them, wearied with their long waiting for Him on the shore of the sea, sought comfort and solace, opportunity and incitement to thought in going a-fishing.

I can understand it, for, though far be it from me to compare any weariness or sorrow of mine with theirs, I have known that there was no better way in which I could find rest.

I have written for lovers of the gentle art, and if this which I have written fall into other hands, let him who reads understand that it is not for him. We who go a-fishing are a peculiar people. Like other men and women in many respects, we are like one another, and like no others, in other respects. We understand each other’s thoughts by an intuition of which you know nothing. So closely are we alike in some regards, so different from the rest of the world in these respects, and so important are these characteristics of mind and of thought, that I sometimes think no man but one of us can properly understand the mind of Peter, or appreciate the glorious visions of the son of Zebedee.

FROM “GAME FISH OF THE NORTH.”

By R. B. Roosevelt.

There are innumerable rules applicable to trout fishing, and innumerable exceptions to each; neither man nor fish is infallible. A change of weather is always desirable; if it has been-clear, a rainy day is favorable; if cold, a warm one; if the wind has been north, a southerly one is advantageous; a zephyr if it has been blowing a tornado. Generally, in early spring, amid the fading snows and blasts of winter, a warm day is very desirable; later, in the heats of summer, a cold, windy day will insure success. Dead calm is dangerous, although many trout are taken in water as still, clear and transparent as the heavens above. The first rule is never to give up; there is hardly a day but at some hour, if there be trout, they will rise, and steady, patient industry disciplines the mind and invigorates the muscles. A southerly, especially a south-easterly wind, has a singular tendency to darken the surface, and in clear, fine waters is particularly advantageous; a south-wester comes next in order; a north-easter, in which, by-the-by, occasionally there is great success, is the next; and a north-wester is the worst and dearest of all. Give me wind on any terms, a southerly wind, if I can have it; but give me wind. It is not known what quality of wind darkens the water; it may be a haziness produced in the atmosphere, although with a cloudy sky the water is often too transparent; it may be the peculiar character of the waves, short and broken, as contra-distinguished from long and rolling; but the fact is entitled to reliance.

Slight changes will often affect the fish. On one day in June, in the writer’s experience, after having no luck until eleven o’clock, the trout suddenly commenced rising, and kept on without cessation, scarcely giving time to cast, till two, when they as suddenly stopped. There was no observable change in the weather, except the advent of a slight haze, the wind remaining precisely the same. I was much disappointed, not having half fished the ground, and being prevented, by the numbers that were taken, from casting over some of the largest fish that broke. As it was I caught seventy trout in what are ordinarily considered the worst hours of the day. But in this particular, also, the same rules apply as to the warmth of the weather. In early spring it is useless to be up with the lark, even supposing such a bird exists; no fish will break water till the sun has warmed the air; but in summer, the dawn should blush to find the sportsman napping. In fact, trout will not rise well unless the air is warmer than the water. They do not like to risk taking cold by exposing themselves to a sudden draught.

There is a very absurd impression that trout will not take the fly early in the season; this is entirely unfounded. As soon as the ice disappears they will be found gambolling in the salt-water streams, and leaping readily at the fly. At such times, on lucky days, immense numbers are taken. In March they have run up the sluice-ways and are in the lower ponds, lying sullenly in the deepest water; then is the Cowdung, politely called the Dark Cinnamon, the most attractive fly. In April, May and June they are scattered, and entrapped by the Hackles, Professor, Ibis, and all the medium-sized flies. In July and August they have sought the head-waters of navigation, the cool spring brooks, and hide around the weeds and water-cresses, whence the midges alone can tempt them.

Any flies will catch fish, cast in any manner, if the fish are plenty and in humor to be caught. A few feathers torn from the nearest and least suspicious chicken, and tied on an ordinary hook with a piece of thread, will constitute a fly in the imagination of a trout, provided he follows, as he sometimes appears to do, the advice of young folks—shuts his eyes and opens his mouth. I cannot recommend such tackle, being convinced the most skilfully made is the best; but I do advise simplicity of color.

* * * * *

Good luck, that synonym for all the virtues, does not depend so much upon the kind of flies as the skill in casting, and a poor fly lightly cast into the right spot will do better execution than the best fly roughly cast into the wrong place. The lure must be put where the fish habit, often before their very noses, or they will not take it; and when they lie, as they generally do in running streams, in the deep holes under the banks, where the bushes are closest and cause the densest shade, it requires some skill to cast properly into the exact spot. Sacrifice everything to lightness in casting; let the line go straight without a kink if you can, drop the fly into the right ripple if possible, but it must drop gently on the surface of the water. An ugly splash of a clear day in pure water, and the prey will dart in every direction, and the angler’s hopes scatter with them.

A beginner may practice a certain formula, such as lifting the line with a wave and smart spring, swinging it backward in a half circle, and when it is directly behind him, casting straight forward; but as soon as he has overcome the rudimentary principles, he should cast in every manner, making the tip of his rod cut full circles, figure eights, and all other figures, behind him, according to the wind; bearing in mind, however, ever to make his fly drop as lightly as a feather. He should use his wrist mainly, and practice with each hand, and should never be otherwise than ashamed of a bungling cast, though he be alone, and none but the fish there to despise him. If the line falls the first time with a heartrending splash, all in a tangle, it is useless to make the next cast properly. The fish have found out the trick, and know too much to risk their necks in any such noose.

A skilful fisherman can cast almost any length of line, but practically, fifty feet, counting from the reel, is all that can be used to advantage. Some English books say only the leader [gut links] should alight in the water; but this is nonsense, for at least one-half the line must fall into the water, unless the fisherman stand on a high bank. With a long line, the difficulties of striking and landing the fish are greatly increased. In striking, there is much slack line to be taken up. In landing, it requires some time to get the fish under control, and he is apt to reach the weeds or a stump.

That most excellent fisherman and learned scholar, Dr. Bethune, in his edition of Walton, Part II., page 73, says that candid anglers must confess that nine out of ten trout hook themselves. This may be so in streams teeming with fish, where a dozen start at once, frantically striving to be the first; but in clear, well-fished streams, not one fish in a thousand will hook himself; and on Long Island, an angler would grow gray ere he filled his basket if he did not strike, and that quickly. Striking, to my mind, is by far the most important point, and hundreds of fish have I seen escape for want of quickness. It must be done quickly but steadily, and not with a jerk, as the latter is apt, by the double action of the rod, to bend the tip forward, and loosen instead of tightening the line. There are days when fish cannot be struck, although they are rising freely. Whether they are playing or over-cautious, I never could determine; whether they are not hungry, or the water is too clear, they put a man’s capacities at defiance. Their appearance must be signalled to the eye, by that reported to the brain, which then directs the nerves to command the muscles to move the wrist; and ere this complicated performance is completed, the fish has blown from his mouth the feathery deception, and has darted back to his haunts of safety. A fish will occasionally leap up, seize the fly, discover the cheat, and shaking his head, jump several feet along the surface of the water to rid his mouth of it, and do this so quickly as not to give a quick angler time to strike. How often fish are caught when they rise the second time, as then the angler is more on the alert; whereas, on the first rise, he was off his guard! How often fish rise when the angler’s head is turned away from his line, or when he is busy at something else, and how rarely are they caught! In my experience, it is so great a rarity, that it might almost be said they never hook themselves. In the language of youth, the only hooking they do, is to hook off.

Dr. Bethune, page 97, says the rod should not exceed one pound in weight. Indeed, it should not; and if it does, it exemplifies the old maxim, so far as to have a fool at one end. If we could fish by steam, a rod exceeding a pound and measuring over fourteen feet might answer well; but in these benighted days, while wrists are of bone, muscles, cartilages, and the like, the lighter the better. A rod—and if perfection is absolutely indispensable, a cedar rod—of eleven or twelve feet, weighing nine or ten ounces, will catch trout. Cedar rods can only be obtained in America, and then only on compulsion; but this wood makes the most elastic rods in the world. They spring instantly to every motion of the hand, and never warp. They are delicate. The wood is like woman—cross-grained, but invaluable, if carefully treated. The reel should be a simple click, never a multiplier, but large-barrelled, and fastened to the butt with a leather strap. The line silk, covered, with a preparation of oil, tapered, if possible, at each end, and thirty to forty yards long. The basket—positive—a fish basket; the angler—comparative—a fisherman.

Thus equipped, go forth mildly, approving where the writer’s opinions coincide with yours, simply incredulous where they do not.

* * * * *

There are several ways of landing a trout, but not all equally sportsmanlike. Large trout may be gaffed; small ones landed in a net; and where neither of these means is at hand, they must be dragged out of the water, or floated up among the bushes, according to the taste of the angler and the strength of his tackle.

A tyro was once fishing in the same boat with me, using bait, when he struck his first trout. One can imagine how entirely misspent had been his previous existence, when it is said he had never taken a trout, no, nor any other fish, before. It was not a large fish; such luck rarely falls to the share of the beginner; and in spite of what elderly gentlemen may say to the contrary, an ignorant countryman, with his sapling rod and coarse tackle, never takes the largest fish nor the greatest in quantity. Were it otherwise, sportsmen had better turn louts, and tackle makers take to cutting straight saplings in the woods. My companion, nevertheless, was not a little surprised at the vigorous rushes the trout made to escape, but his line being strong and rod stiff, he steadily reeled him in. Great was the excitement; his whole mind was devoted to shortening the line, regardless of what was to be done next. We had a darky named Joe with us, to row the boat and land the fish, and our luck having been bad during the morning he was delighted with this turn of affairs, and ready, net in hand, to do his duty. The fish was being reeled up till but a few feet of the line remained below the top, when with a shout of “land, Joe, land him!” my companion suddenly lifted up his rod, carrying the trout far above our heads. There it dangled, swaying to and fro, bouncing and jumping, while the agonized fisherman besought the darky to land him, and the latter, reaching up as far as he could with the net, his eyes starting out of his head with wonder at this novel mode of proceeding, came far short of his object. Never was seen such a sight; the hopeless despair of my friend, the eagerness of the darky, who fairly strove to climb the rod as the fish danced about far out of reach. What was to be done? The line would not render, the rod was so long we could not reach the tip in the boat; and the only horrible alternative appeared to be my friend’s losing his first fish. The latter, however, by this remarkable course of treatment, had grown peaceable and when he was dropped back into the water, made but feeble efforts, while my companion, as quietly as he could, worked out his line till he could land him like a Christian. Great were the rejoicings when the prize earned with so much anxiety was secured. That is the way not to land a trout.

One afternoon of a very boisterous day, I struck a large fish at the deep hole in the centre of Phillipse’s Pond, on Long Island. He came out fiercely, and taking my fly as he went down, darted at once for the bottom, which is absolutely covered with long, thick weeds. The moment he found he was struck he took refuge among them, and tangled himself so effectually that I could not feel him, and supposed he had escaped. By carefully exerting sufficient force, however, the weeds were loosened from the bottom, and the electric thrill of his renewed motion was again perceptible. He was allowed to draw the line through the weeds and play below them, as by so doing they would give a little, while if confined in them he would have a leverage against them, and could, with one vigorous twist, tear out the hook. When he was somewhat exhausted, the question as to the better mode of landing him arose. The wind was blowing so hard as to raise quite a sea, which washed the weeds before it in spite of any strain that could be exerted by the rod, and drifted the boat as well, rendering the latter almost unmanageable, while the fish was still so vigorous as to threaten every moment to escape. I besought the boatman, who was an old hand, and thoroughly up to his business, to drop the boat down to the weeds and let me try and land my fish with one hand while holding the rod with the other. He knew the dangers of such a course, and insisted upon rowing slowly and carefully for shore at a shallow place sheltered from the wind, although I greatly feared the hook would tear out or the rod snap under the strain of towing both weeds and fish; once near shore, he deliberately forced an oar into the mud and made the boat fast to it, and then taking up the net watched for a favorable chance. He waited for some time, carefully putting the weeds aside until a gleaming line of silver glanced for a moment beneath the water, when darting the net down he as suddenly brought it up, revealing within its folds the glorious colors of a splendid trout. That was the way to land a trout under difficulties, although I still think I could have done it successfully by myself.

Generally the utmost delicacy should be shown in killing a fish, but there are times when force must be exerted. If the fish is making for a stump, or even weeds, he must be stopped at any reasonable risk of the rod’s breaking or the fly’s tearing out. A stump is the most dangerous; one turn around that and he is off, leaving your flies probably in a most inconvenient place and many feet below the surface of the water. But remember the oft-repeated maxim of a friend of the writer, who had been with him many a joyous fishing day, “That one trout hooked is worth a dozen not hooked.” Small trout are more apt to escape than large ones, because the skin around the mouth of the latter is tougher. With either, however, there is risk enough. The hook is small, and often takes but a slight hold; the gut is delicate, and frequently half worn through by continual casting. Fish are, in a majority of instances, hooked in the corner of the upper jaw, where there is but a thin skin to hold them; by long continued struggling the hole wears larger, and finally, to the agony of the fisherman, the hook slips out.

There are occasions when force must be exerted, and then good tackle and a well-made rod will repay the cost. At dusk, one night, I cautiously approached the edge of a newly made pond, that was as full of stumps as of fish, both being about the extreme limit, and casting into the clear water struck a fine fish of three-quarters of a pound. Not a minute’s grace did he receive, but I lugged and he fought, and after a general turmoil I succeeded in bringing him to land, in spite of weeds and stumps and twigs, which he did his best to reach. The same was done with Severn fish after a loss of only three flies and with a rod that weighed only eight ounces.

In landing a fish wait till he is pretty well exhausted, bring his mouth above water, and keep it there till he is drawn into the net, and warn your assistant to remove the net at once if he gets his head down. By diving after him with the net the assistant would certainly not catch the fish and might tangle one of your other flies. The fish should be led into the net, and the latter kept as still as possible; he knows as well as you do what it is for, and if his attention is drawn to it will dart off as madly as ever.

* * * * *

The trout is admitted to be the most beautiful of all our fish; not so large or powerful as the salmon, he is much more numerous, abounding in all the brooks and rivulets of our Northern States. He lives at our very doors; in the stream that meanders across yon meadow, where the haymakers are now busy with their scythes, we have taken him in our early days; down yonder in that wood is a brook filled with bright, lively little fellows; and away over there we know of pools where there are splendid ones. Who has not said or thought such words as he stood in the bright summer’s day under the grateful shade of the piazza running round the old country house where he played—a boy?

He does not make the nerves thrill and tingle like the salmon, he does not leap so madly into the air nor make such fierce, resolute rushes; he has not the silver sides, nor the great strength; but he is beautiful as the sunset sky, brave as bravery itself, and is our own home darling. How he flashes upon the sight as he grasps the spurious insect, and turns down with a quick little slap of the tail! How he darts hither and thither when he finds he is hooked! How persistently he struggles till enveloped in the net! And then with what heart-rending sighs he breathes away his life! Who does not love the lovely trout? With eye as deep and melting, skin as rich and soft, and ways as wildly wilful as angelic woman—who loves not one loves not the other. Who would not win the one cares not to win the other. Strange that man should kill the thing he loves but if to possess them kills them, he must kill. If women, like the _Ephemerae_, died, as they often do, in their love, we should still love them. Such is man; do not think I praise him. No one kills fish for the pleasure of killing; but they cannot live out of water, nor we in it, therefore one of us must die.

The man who kills to kill, who is not satisfied with reasonable sport, who slays unfairly or out of season, who adds one wanton pang, that man receives the contempt of all good sportsmen and deserves the felon’s doom. Of such there are but few.

We seek this, our favorite fish, in early spring, when the ice has just melted, and the cold winds remind one forcibly of bleak December, and when we find him in the salt streams, especially of Long Island and Cape Cod; but we love most to follow him in the early summer, along the merry streams of old Orange, or the mountain brooks of Sullivan county; where the air is full of gladness, and the trees are heavy with foliage—where the birds are singing on every bough, and the grass redolent of violets and early flowers. There we wade the cold brooks, leafy branches bowing us a welcome as we pass, the water rippling over the hidden rocks, and telling us, in its wayward way, of the fine fish it carries in its bosom. With creel upon our shoulder and rod in hand, we reck not of the hours, and only when the sinking sun warns of the approaching darkness do we seek, with sharpened appetite, the hospitable country inn, and the comfortable supper that our prey will furnish forth.

* * * * *

There is no fish more difficult to catch, nor that gives the true angler more genuine sport, than the trout. His capture requires the nicest tackle, the greatest skill, the most complete self-command, the highest qualities of mind and body. The arm must be strong that wields the rod, the eye true that sees the rise; the wrist quick that strikes at the instant; the judgment good that selects the best spot, the most suitable fly, and knows just how to kill the fish. A fine temper is required to bear up against the loss of a noble fish, and patient perseverance to conquer ill luck.

Hence it is that the fisherman is so proud of his basket of a dozen half-pound trout. He feels that any one more awkward or less resolute could not have done so well. He feels conscious that he does not owe his success to mere luck, but has deserved the glory. He feels that he has elevated himself by the very effort. Do not suppose I mean that there is no skill in other fishing; there is in all, even in catching minnows for bait, but most of all in trout-fishing.

TROUT FLIES.

“That _we are_ wise men, I shall not stoop to maintain, but that we do love angling we are assured of, and therein we know that we are in unison with very many greatly wise and wisely good men.”—_Thaddeus Norris._

“The true angler is not confined to fly-fishing, as many imagine. When the fly can be used it always should be used, but where the fly is impracticable, or your fish will not rise to it, he is a very foolish angler who declines to use bait.”—_W. C. Prime_.

“The creative power of genius can make a feather-fly live, and move, and have being; and a wisely stricken fish gives up the ghost in transports.”—“_J. Cypress, Jr._”

64. Jungle Cock.

65. Lake Green.

66. Jenny Lind.

67. Poor Man’s Fly.

68. Pheasant.

69. Romeyn.

70. Morrison.

71. Katy-did.

72. Claret.

73. Hoskins.

74. Caldwell.

75. Iron Dun.

76. Queen of the Water.

77. Olive Gnat.

78. Brown Coffin.

“The deftly-tossed fly, taking wing on the nerve of a masterly cast, will drop gracefully far out in the stream where the heavier gear of the bait rod would never aspire to reach.”—_Charles Hallock._

“Fly-fishing may well be considered the most beautiful of all rural sports.”—“_Frank Forester_.”

“To be a perfect trout fisher, to my mind, a man should follow no other branch of fishing. It spoils his hand if he does. I myself, from the practice of striking so hard in both salmon, pike and other fishing, lose numbers of fish and flies in the course of the season; and what makes it the more vexing is that they are nearly always the best and heaviest fish.”—_Francis Francis_.

“If a pricked trout is chased into another pool, he will, I believe, soon again take the artificial fly.”—_Sir Humphry Davy._

“It is only the inexperienced and thoughtless who find pleasure in killing fish for the mere sake of killing them. No sportsman does this.”—_W. C. Prime._

“We persevered, notwithstanding the storm, and got our hundred trout, all alive and active, into Lake Salubria. They did not, however, multiply as we hoped they would. For years one would hear occasionally of a great trout being caught in the lake, till at last they were all gone. They lacked the ripples and the running water. They lived to be old, and then died without progeny, ‘making no sign.’”—_S. H. Hammond._

“The trout is such a light food, that eight of them, some ten inches long, will not make a supper for a hearty man, leading this wilderness life.”—“_Porte Crayon_.”

“I believe I am sincere in saying that I enjoy seeing another man throw a fly, if he is a good and graceful sportsman, quite as much as doing it myself.”—_W. C. Prime_.

“I was content with my one glimpse, by twilight, at the forest’s great and solemn heart; and having once, alone, and in such an hour, touched it with my own hand and listened to its throb, I have felt the awe of that experience evermore.”—_A. Judd Northrup._

THE POETRY OF FLY FISHING

By F. E. Pond.

It has been said that the angler, like the poet, is born, not made. This is a self-evident fact. Few men have risen to the dignity of anglers who did not in early youth feel the unbearable impulse to go a-fishing. There are, of course, noteworthy exceptions, but the rule holds good. It might be added, too, that the genuine angler is almost invariably a poet, although he may not be a jingler of rhymes—a ballad-monger. Though, perhaps, lacking the art of versification, his whole life is in itself a well-rounded poem, and he never misses the opportunity to “cast his lines in pleasant places.”

This is particularly true of the artistic fly-fisher, for with him each line is cast with the poetry of motion. Ned Locus, the inimitable character of J. Cypress’ “Fire Island Ana,” is made to aver that he “once threw his fly so far, so delicately, and suspendedly, that it took life and wings, and would have flown away, but that a four-pound trout, seeing it start, jumped a foot from the water and seized it, thus changing the course of the insect’s travel from the upper atmosphere to the bottom of his throat.” Being quoted from memory, these may not be the words exactly, as Toodles would say, but the sentiment is the same. There is the true poetical spirit pervading the very air, whispering from the leaves, murmuring in the brook, and thus the surroundings of the angler complete that which nature began, and make him a poet. In common with other sports of the field, though in greater degree:

“It is a mingled rapture, and we find

The bodily spirit mounting to the mind.”

Bards have sung its praises, traditions have hallowed it, and philosophers have revelled in the gentle pastime, from the days of Oppian and Homer down to Walton, Christopher North and Tennyson.

Although the art of fly-fishing was not known to the ancients, the poetry of angling has been enriched by the bards of ye-olden-time to a remarkable degree. In Pope’s translation of the Iliad, the following passage occurs:

“As from some rock that overhangs the flood,

The silent fisher casts the insidious food;

With fraudful care he waits the finny prize,

Then sudden lifts it quivering to the skies.”

One of the most familiar of Æsop’s fables, in rhyme, is that of the Fisherman and the Little Fish, while Theocritus, who flourished about the year 270 B. c., gives us a spirited idyl representing the life of a Greek fisherman. Oppian and Aristotle each prepared a classical volume on fish and fishing. Pliny in his “Historia Naturalis” treats at length of the finny tribes, and Ansonius in his poem, “Mostella,” describes the tench, salmon and other varieties of fish.

Among the early contributions to English literature on angling, the “Poeticæ,” generally attributed to a Scottish balladist known as Blind Harry, is conspicuous. Then the “Boke of St. Albans,” by Dame Juliana Berners, and quaint old Izaak Walton’s “Compleat Angler”—a brace of classic volumes dear to the heart of all who love the rod and reel.

In modern times the literature of angling has had scores of staunch and able supporters among the writers of Britain and our own land. Sir Humphry Davy’s “Salmonia”; Christopher North’s essays on angling, in “Noctes Ambrosianæ”; Stoddart’s Angling Songs; all these and a score of others are familiar to rodsters on both sides of the Atlantic. The clever poet and satirist, Tom Hood, discourses thus in praise of the gentle art:

“Of all sports ever sported, commend me to angling. It is the wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best; the safest, cheapest, and in all likelihood the oldest of pastimes. It is a one-handed game that would have suited Adam himself; and it was the only one by which Noah could have amused himself in the ark. Hunting and shooting come in second and third. The common phrase, ‘fish, flesh and fowl,’ clearly hints at this order of precedence. * * * To refer to my own experience, I certainly became acquainted with the angling rod soon after the birchen one, and long before I had any practical knowledge of ‘Nimrod’ or ‘Ramroch’ The truth is, angling comes by nature. It is _in the system_, as the doctors say.”

It is no exaggeration to state that the real poetry of fly-fishing, as given in the grand old book of Nature, is appreciated to the fullest by American anglers. The breezy air of the forest leaves is found in the charming works of Bethune, of Herbert, Hawes, Norris, Dawson, Hallock and many other worthies, past and present. The modern Horace—he of the traditional white hat—never wrote a better essay than that descriptive of his early fishing days. The same is true of Rev. Henry Ward Beecher, and Charles Dudley Warner’s most graphic pen picture is his inimitable sketch, “A Fight with a Trout.” The number of really good books on American field sports is principally made up of angling works, a fact which goes far to establish the truth of Wm. T. Porter’s assertion, namely: “No man ever truly polished a book unless he were something of an angler, or at least loved the occupation. He who steals from the haunts of men into the green solitudes of Nature, by the banks of gliding, silvery streams, under the checkering lights of sun, leaf and cloud, may always hope to cast his lines, whether of the rod or the ‘record book,’ in pleasant places.”

This may be appropriately supplemented by the opinion, poetically expressed by the same author, with reference to the art of fishing with the artificial fly, thus: “Fly-fishing has been designated the royal and aristocratic branch of the angler’s craft, and unquestionably it is the most difficult, the most elegant, and to men of taste, by myriads of degrees the most pleasant and exciting mode of angling. To land a trout of three, four or five pounds weight, and sometimes heavier, with a hook almost invisible, with a gut line almost as delicate and beautiful as a single hair from the raven tresses of a mountain sylph, and with a rod not heavier than a tandem whip, is an achievement requiring no little presence of mind, united to consummate skill. If it be not so, and if it do not give you some very pretty palpitations of the heart in the performance, may we never, wet a line in Lake George, or raise a trout in the Susquehanna.”

Thomson, the much admired author of “The Seasons,” was in his youth a zealous angler, frequently casting his fly in the rippling waters of the Tweed, a trout-stream justly famous along the Scottish border. The poet has eulogized his favorite pastime of fly-fishing in the following elegant lines:

“Now, when the first foul torrent of the brooks,

Swell’d with the vernal rains, is ebb’d away;

And, whitening, down their mossy tinctur’d stream

Descends the billowy foam, now is the time,

While yet the dark brown water aids the guile

To tempt the trout. The well-dissembled fly—

The rod, fine tapering with elastic spring,

Snatch’d from the hoary stud the floating line.

And all thy slender wat’ry stores prepare;

But let not on thy hook the tortur’d worm

Convulsive twist in agonizing folds,

Which, by rapacious hunger swallow’d deep,

Gives, as you tear it from the bleeding breast

Of the weak, helpless, uncomplaining wretch,

Harsh pain and horror to the tender hand.”

When, with his lively ray, the potent sun

Has pierc’d the streams, and rous’d the finny race,

Then, issuing cheerful to thy sport repair;

Chief should the western breezes curling play,

And light o’er ether bear the shadowy clouds,

High to their fount, this day, amid the hills

And woodlands warbling round, trace up the brooks;

The next pursue their rocky-c-hannel’d maze

Down to the river, in whose ample wave

Their little Naiads love to sport at large.

Just in the dubious point, where with the pool

Is mix’d the trembling stream, or where it boils

Around the stone, or from the hollow’d bank

Reverted plays in undulating flow,

There throw, nice judging, the delusive fly;

And, as you lead it round the artful curve,

With eye attentive mark the springing game.

Straight as above the surface of the flood

They wanton rise, or, urged by hunger, leap,

Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook;

Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank,

And to the shelving shore slow dragging some

With various hand proportion’d to their force.

If yet too young, and easily deceiv’d,

A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod.’

Him, piteous of his youth, and the short space

He has enjoy’d the vital light of heaven,

Soft disengage, and back into the stream

The speckl’d captive throw; but, should you lure

From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots

Of pendent trees, the monarch of the brook,

Behooves you then to ply your finest art.

Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly,

And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft

The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear.

At last, while haply o’er the shaded sun

Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death

With sullen plunge: at once he darts along,

Deep struck, and runs out all the lengthen’d line,

Then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed,

The cavern’d bank, his old secure above,

And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool,

Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand,

That feels him still, yet to his furious course

Gives way, you, now retiring, following now,

Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage,

Till floating broad upon his breathless side,

And to his fate abandon’d, to the shore

You gayly drag your unresisting prize.”

Angling, like every other manly pastime, has had numerous assailants—some of them “men of mark,” as in the case of Lord Byron, whose “fine plirensy” in denouncing Walton and the gentle art failed not to draw down upon himself the laughter of a world. The plaint of Lord Byron runs thus:

“Then there were billiards; cards, too; but no dice,

Save in the clubs no man of honor plays—

Boats when’twas water, skating when’twas ice,

And the hard frost destroy’d the scenting days;

And angling, too, that solitary vice,

Whatever Izaac Walton sings or says;

The quaint old cruel coxcomb in his gullet,

Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.”

Another famous satirist of the old school defines angling as “a stick and a string, with a fish at one end and a fool at the other,” while a third, the well-known Peter Pindar, in closing a “Ballad to a Fish in the Brook,” takes occasion to say:

“Enjoy thy stream, oh, harmless fish,

“And when an angler for his dish,

Through gluttony’s vile sin,

Attempts—a wretch—to pull thee out,

God give thee strength, oh, gentle trout,

To pull the rascal in.”

All who love to go a-fishing can well afford to smile at the malicious flings of morbid critics, and while recreating both mind and body in casting the mimic fly along the dashing mountain stream, think of the deluded satirists in pity rather than condemnation.

Let us, then, in unison with the quaint and charming poet, Gay:

“Mark well the various seasons of the year,

How the succeeding insect race appear,

In their revolving moon one color reigns,

Which in the next the fickle trout disdains;

Oft have I seen a skilful angler try

The various colors of the treach’rous fly;

When he “with fruitless pain hath skim’d the brook,

And the coy fish rejects the skipping hook.

He shakes the boughs that on the margin grow,

Which o’er the stream a weaving forest throw;

When if an insect fall (his certain guide)

He gently takes him from the whirling tide;

Examines well his form with curious eyes,

His gaudy vest, his wings, his horns, his size.

Then round his hook the chosen fur he winds,

And on the back a speckled feather binds;

So just the colors shine through every part,

That nature seems to live again in art.”

A PERFECT DAY

By Geo. W. Van Siclen.

I take my rod this fair June morning, and go forth to be alone with nature. No business cares, no roar of the city, no recitals of others’ troubles and woes which make the lawyer a human hygrometer, no doubts nor fears to disturb me as, drinking in the clear, sweet air with blissful anticipation, I saunter through the wood-path toward the mountain lake. As I brush the dew from the bushes around me, I spy in a glade golden flowers glowing on a carpet of pure green, mingled with the snowy stars of white blossoms; with their fragrance comes the liquid, bell-like voice of the swamp-robin, hidden from curious eyes. Soon seated in my boat, I paddle to the shade of a tall, dark hemlock and rest there, lulled by the intense quiet. Ever and anon as I dreamily cast my ethereal fly, a thrill of pleasure electrifies me, as it is seized by a vigorous trout.

I have long classed trout with flowers and birds, and bright sunsets, and charming scenery, and beautiful women, as given for the rational enjoyment and delight of thoughtful men of aesthetic tastes. And if

“By deeds our lives shall measured be,

And not by length of days,”

then a perfect life has been lived by many a noble trout whose years have been few, but who, caught by the fisher’s lure (to which he was predestined, as aforesaid), has leaped into the air and shaken the sparkling drops from his purple, golden, crimson, graceful form and struggled to be free, to the intense delight of the artist who brought him to the basket, where he belonged.

Thus resting, and floating apparently between the translucent crystal and the blue ether, silent, I have felt the presence of a spirit who inspires one with pure thoughts of matters far above the affairs of daily life and toil, of the universe and what lies beyond the blue sky, and of the mind and soul of man, and his future after death.

I _love_ the mountains, and the meadows, and the woods.

Later satisfied, but not satiated, with fair provision of corn, and wine, and oil, and my creel well filled, the shadows lengthen and the day begins to die.

Some day I shall hear no more forever the birds sing in the sylvan shade. My eyes will no more behold the woods I love so well. For the last time my feet will slowly tread this woodland road, and I shall watch for the last time the changing shadows made by the clouds upon the hillsides.

There will come a time when the setting sun will paint the west as the bridegroom colors the cheek of the bride; but I shall not know it, and I shall never again share such hours of peace with the leafy trees. Then, with folded hands upon my quiet breast, my friends will briefly gaze upon my face and I shall be gone. In that last day, so full of deepest interest to me, may my soul be pure.

Filled with such thoughts, I regret that I cannot express them like the poet, whose name I know not, but whose words I will recall:

“Good-bye, sweet day, good-bye!

I have so loved thee, but I cannot hold thee;

Departing like a dream the shadows fold thee.

Slowly thy perfect beauty fades away;

Good-bye, sweet day.

“Good-bye, sweet day, good-bye!

Dear were the golden hours of tranquil splendor.

Sadly thou yieldest to the evening tender,

Who wert so fair from thy first morning ray.

Good-bye, sweet day.

“Good-bye, sweet day, good-bye!

Thy glow and charm, thy smiles and tones and glances

Vanish at last and solemn night advances.

Ah! couldst thou yet a little longer stay.

Good-bye, sweet day.

“Good-bye, sweet day, good-bye!

All thy rich gifts my grateful heart remembers,

The while I watched thy sunset’s smouldering embers

Die in the west beneath the twilight gray.

Good-bye, sweet day.”

As the balsam-breathing night wind begins to blow, I turn my back upon the silver glancing of the moonlight on the rippling waves of the fairy lake, and step bravely into the darkness of the woods, where I cannot see the places where my foot shall fall, but I know that others have safely passed it before, and that I shall find comfort and home at the end.