Fishing with a boy; the tale of a rejuvenation

Front matter

THE TALE OFAREJUVENATION

By

LEONARD HULIT

Dedication

To Joseph B. Cawthorn, whose genial comradery on ocean, lake, and stream, extending through many years, has been an inexpressible delight, and whose love of fishing is exceeded only by his devotion to his friends and his "art," which has earned for him the soubriquet "The Man of a Million Smiles" this volume is dedicated.

The Author.

Introduction

In introducing this character sketch of the boy "Matt" to the public no attempt has been made to have it appear an ambitious work, but rather the simple tale of a red-blooded country boy who knew fish and fishing far better than school books.

It was his misfortune to be orphaned early in life, so his subsequent training devolved entirely upon his "Aunt Mary," who, while a rather stern disciplinarian, keeping him within wholesome bounds, still was never unduly severe, and who took a perhaps pardonable pride in attributing his virtues to what she termed her method of "bringing of him up."

That his love of the wild things of the woods and waters was intuitive must be believed from his habit of searching out for his own delectation many of their mysterious ways while at a very tender age.

And while unlettered and uncouth in many ways, he was respected throughout the community in which he passed his life as an exponent of uncompromising integrity.

Mr. Woodhull, when the writer first knew him, was an anaemic, broken man, due to over-zealous attention to business matters, who built back rapidly to health and vigor through the effects of

INTRODUCTION

open air and sunshine, found in his rambles with the lad over woodland and meadow.

While their stations in life were widely divergent, yet there grew up between them a lasting attachment and affection.

The lad's aptitude for acquiring knowledge was not confined to the living things he met with. Trees and plants were the subjects of his continual investigations, and he had the quaintest of expressions in readiness to evolve his ideas of their ways. In fact, a veritable "Natty Bumppo" of later days, and, like his prototype, he loved the solitude of the forest, and in later life spent much of his time in such haunts in quest of its wild inhabitants.

He devotedly cared for his Aunt Mary during the remaining years of her life, his traps, gun, and "fishin' pole" being important factors to that end.

While most of the fishes discussed in these chapters are of the humbler varieties, still they are important. Vastly important to the legions of oncoming youths, who, if in their turn will lend attentive ear to the call of the "pond and brook" and learn the lessons so plainly portrayed on "nature's chart," will not only become stronger and better men because of it, but, as Matt would say, "You alius know things better when you find 'em out yourself."

Many of the photos are of the territory over which the boy rambled and fished. The old

INTRODUCTION

home is much the same as when the boy lived there, excepting the fact that it has been shingled in recent years. The old grapevine, as can be seen, rambles over most of the entrance, and seems as vigorous as in the old days.

If the perusal of these pages causes increase in the love for the great out-of-doors in the breast of youth, then the writer will feel content and continue to "go fishin.' "

Leonard Hulit.

Foreword

Leonard Hulit has performed a real service to a multitude of anglers by giving permanent form to his delightful story concerning the fishing exploits of the boy Matt, which has been appearing in recent numbers of Forest and Stream.

Every fisherman holds in his memory the keen joy he experienced when as a boy he first learned the secrets of the brooks and ponds, and this story of Matt Buckley will kindle anew the smouldering fires of youthful enthusiasm. The affairs and responsibilities of life soon crowd out the happy emotions that were born when life was young and all the world a wide field for exploration. It is good to ponder again the things which we now know were the true inspirations from which have sprung all that we can view in our lives with durable satisfaction.

Matt Buckley and his Aunt Mary were real characters who lived in a country that is familiar to Mr. Hulit. The vestiges of that time are gone, but the quaint ways of the boy and the shrewd but kindly qualities of the aunt, so charmingly described by the author, still live in the memory of those who knew them.

Matt was known throughout the countryside for his ready wit and straightforward honesty;

FOREWORD

they were attributes that endeared him to all with whom he came in contact.

In the present book Matt's observations on the many strange things he sees in nature and his whimsical manner of interpreting them are an ever-present delight. His ways of fishing were devised from his own experiences, and are therefore full of originality. The Mr. Woodhull in the story, whose rejuvenation is so pleasantly exemplified by the author, is a true likeness of one who renewed his just and equable poise from close contact with the health-giving precepts of outdoor life under the tutelage of a sane and happy country boy.

In writing this story the author has drawn from his own fund of information on fishing, based on his observations of the habits of many of our fresh-water fishes, and his conclusions are eminently sound. While the book will undoubtedly have a strong appeal to the younger generation of anglers because it treats of the ways of youth, yet the old and experienced fisherman will find many things of interest within its pages. The story is woven upon a solid framework of practical instruction, as the author has brought to his work that masterful knowledge of his subject which he has gained from many years of angling experience.

John P. Holman, Managing Editor Forest and Stream.

New York, March 7, 1921. 10

Contents

Page

Catching and Spearing Suckers - - - 64

Bobbing for Eels and Selling Frogs - - - 79

CHAPTER I A Rejuvenation

It has been aptly said that it is not all of fishing to "catch fish." Equally may it be said that it is not all of "catching fish" to catch the more important varieties.

The writer would not for a moment decry the glory of capturing salmon or trout, nor the battle with the sturdy black bass when it is done with appliances which are the last word or thought of the tackle maker's art.

And who will ever aptly tell the supreme satisfaction the angler feels when with deft hand the pliant split bamboo lays the delicate silk line and single gut leader with delusive fly, light as a thistle's down, at the exact spot on the distant pool, to be snapped up by a glorious creature springing like a sunbeam from the depths, to be finally creeled — a victim of fine tackle and fine art? Indeed such "finesse" may be embodied that the wielder of the rod may have spent untold hours debating with an equally enthusiastic fisherman as to whether he should fish up or down stream, and sustaining his argument as a zealot might in defense of his religion.

All this is very well, and no criticism is intended, but what of the man who "goes a-fishin' " who knows nothing of technique and has but little wealth to bestow on equipment? If a trout takes his hook, well and good; it is unceremoniously taken from the element of its life and strung on a willow sprout, to be joined later by some humbler species, perhaps perch or the despised brook sucker.

And who is there to say with emphasis or conclusion there is no touch of technique here? Just one of the many troubles of life may have sent the man to the brookside. Ill health or business cares may be his lot and surcease of these his object. Crude may be his outfit, but one may notice the brightening eye as he selects his pliant birch or maple pole.

Poise and balance may not be as perfect as in the expensive article, but here we are confronted by the mastering fact: the man by his look shows he is completely satisfied with his selection. How much more can one have than that? The man knows the spot he will try: down in the old meadow where the freshets of years have washed out a wide and deep pool at the foot of the old maple. It has been several years since he visited the place, and his quick eye takes in the fact that some of the top branches of the old tree show signs of decay.

He heaves a sigh of satisfaction at the thought that all nature travels in the same direction, and that he is not an exception. Experience in the past has taught him that he may, if his luck is with him, take any of several varieties of fish.

Trout, as well as pickerel, have been taken there in the past by him, but it is best to never count on such. Commoner fish are always more to be expected, and with that, too, he is satisfied. Oh the satisfaction there is in being satisfied! As he pushes his way across the open meadow a bed of buttercups smile up at him, and he pauses a moment to look at an industrious bee drinking among the petals of the flowers.

He falls to wondering where the hive of the workers may be and who may enjoy the delicious sweetness the coming winter when the bee's labor is done in wax.

Would the gold in the buttercups be deeper or the bee more industrious if the man carried a fifty-dollar bamboo rod or was costumed in the latest type of waders and other garments ? Would the summer breeze which floats in from the adjacent hills be more delectable to one than to another?

A red-headed woodpecker is drumming monotonously on the tree as the man goes under it, and he stops and is amused at the undulating flight of the bird across a neighboring field. He falls to wondering why only birds of this family have that queer way with them in their flight.

Nature is pulling at his heart strings, and he doesn't care whether his fishing pole costs fifty dollars or not.

As he sits down on the grass by the side of the pool he notices that, while the current causes dimples to come and go as in the days past on the surface, the stream does not seem so wide as when he was last there, and he falls to wondering if the clearing up of the woodland above should have caused the change.

He begins sorting out from a promiscuous lot the hook which will best suit the work in hand. It is not even gut snelled, just a common hook, with ring into which to tie the line, but it has given him good service in the past, and fish have not changed their habits, he mentally argues.

Not even a painted top-float was in his kit — just a big bottle cork was all he brought, and then he had not made a hole through it, but his way of earlier days was still with him, and, sharpening a stick, he pushed it through the cork, first from one end and then from the other, until the spongy substance gave way and at last an opening was made through which to pass his line.

So absorbed was he with his work that he was fast forgetting why he was there. He was "just fishin' " and happy.

The droning of the bees aloft through the tree was soothing to his tired nerves, and the deep shade a comfort. Across to the west in a swamp a lot of crows set up a noisy cawing, swooping in and out, and the man saw a hawk sitting in a tree, and it called to his mind many such scenes he had witnessed when a boy.

Such matters had almost escaped his memory. Then he began wondering why and when the enmity between the crow and hawk began, and he almost forgot the cork float on the water. He looked in time to see it disappear, and the old impulse to jerk quick and hard was with him, but he thought better and tightened well on the line and found a fish was hooked. His pliant birch at last threw the victim out, which flopped on the grass just as it had done when the man was a boy.

"Catfish," he said aloud. "Well, why not?" Gingerly he took up the fish, well remembering what that set of spine rays at the sides and at the dorsal fin could do to the hand if carelessly handled. It was not a large fish and not really small, just the average size, and the man wondered how many like it he had taken from the same pool when as a boy he had fished there.

"Gee, Mister, are they bitin'?" said a voice, and the man, half startled, looked up to see a boy very like himself when of the same age. One trouser leg was rolled up to the knee, the other was down to near the ankle; a much-faded shirt and a straw hat which had evidently been in contact with a bumblebee's nest completed his make-up. There were freckles a-plenty on his nose and cheeks. He carried a tin can with

: 9 worms in it in one hand and a maple pole in the other. The man greeted him pleasantly as he approached.

The boy turned the fish over carefully with his toe and said: "There's plenty of 'em in here, an' they'll bite better to'ards night," then seated himself cross-legged on the grass. The man and boy were friends from that moment. Silently the boy impaled the worm to his liking, and the man noticed how nicely he adjusted the cork on the line so that the baited hook would just clear the bottom.

"No novice, that," said the man mentally. He noticed, too, that the maple pole was carefully decorated by stripping the bark clean in sections of six inches, then leaving the bark on for two inches, and so on to the end. "Seems though we might have a shower," remarked the boy, as he removed a pumpkin seed from his hook and looked around at the sky. "'Twon't hurt nothin', can't get much wet, and the fish will bite better. This old maple is a heap of shelter when it rains." The man saw the boy was inclined to be talkative and he encouraged him. "I lost an ol' whopper pike here last week," he continued. "Was tired catchin' sunnies, so I cut off the belly of one an' left the fins on an' went skitterin' right there by the spatter dock, an' smack he took it an' most jerked me in. Gosh! I bet he would weigh most four pounds, mebbe five." Then the man made a mental note that the belly of a sunny, with fins left on, was a good lure for pickerel.

There was action almost all the afternoon for both boy and man. While no record fish were taken, still it was "fishin','' as the boy put it, and the man was enraptured. The catch was mostly "catties," as the boy called them, with a sprinkling of sunnies and a few perch. Toward evening the man tried the sunfish lure, after the boy had trimmed it down for him, and succeeded in getting a vigorous strike from a pickerel, but did not hook it. "Hook's too small, that's why," said the boy, "like mine t'other day.

"When you go after them birds you want a big hook. They got a mouth just like a goose, only bigger, an' when you hook one you best hoss him in fast as ever or off he goes. It's one thin' I don't like about this hole: you can't never tell just what will take holt, an' what you ain't fixed for is what most like will come. What I most like is to know what you're after and then fix for 'em.

"Say," he exclaimed, "there was a feller stoppin' over at Doane's house last season, and he fished all over here. He had a pole 'bout like a straw an' long as ever. One day he took two good trout down by the gravel bed below. He had 'em when I got to him. Gosh! I don't know how he done it — he used feathers, flies he called 'em, an' no worm on 'em.

"He didn't take no more after I got there. He was a dude, all togged up, an' he took a callin'

me 'Buckskin,' what for I don't know, but it made me mad, and to get square, when he put his basket down I watched my chance and slipped two 'catties' in an' took out his trout an' lit out for home lickity split. Gosh! but I bet he was mad. I never seen him but once more, and he was on one side of the creek an' I was on the other, an' I took care to stay there. He said he had some hooks I could have if I would wade across, but I told him I was delicate and afraid I'd take cold. He! he!" So the boy rambled on, the man taking many cues from the way in which he managed his rig and how he adjusted bait, and when time for quitting came the boy had the best string. "On'y 'cause I had the better hook," he said, "an' know better where to fish. You can do jes' as well next time, 'cause you'll know, an' say, if you'll tell me when you will come again I'll bring you one of my hooks and you will have better luck." The sun had gone down behind the hills as the man went back to his abode. He was learning a lesson. Never had he spent so gladsome an afternoon since his boyhood days. In the boy he saw a reflection of himself at that period in life, but the boy had a touch about him which he felt he never possessed. The real soulfulness of the game seemed to him to be that no matter what the specimen taken the boy was gloating over it and, as he afterward told him, "Why shouldn't I love 'em? We've growed up together in the neighborhood, an' I bet no fancy fish you know of will beat some of the common kind, as you call 'em, an' I'll show you some day." And so the man went home that night with happy thoughts, and, as he had not done for many weary months, wrapped the drapery of his couch about him and

"Lay down to pleasant dreams."

CHAPTER II Cattie Fishing

The mail was late one morning at the village near which the man was boarding, and he was awaiting its arrival at the store. One of those quaint affairs, so general throughout the rural districts, with its motley collection of merchandise, where could be had

The man was one of a numberless throng who, through dint of long hours and every-day service over ponderous ledgers, though not yet of middle life, had reached the condition where rest and change was imperative.

His wife and one child had gone to spend an interval of time with her people, while he had decided to recuperate in the region of his youth.

As in most sections of its kind, but few changes had taken place during his absence. Some of his old friends had passed to the great beyond, while those of his own years had become the staid residents, working out their destiny much as had their predecessors. He was reading a sale bill hung up in the store when in breezed his boy acquaintance of a few days previous, garbed much the same as on the previous day, except that his battered straw hat was replaced by a cap equally disreputable in appearance, worn well back on his head, showing off to good advantage the freckles on nose and cheeks.

"Hello!" he said, on catching sight of the man. "Feelin' better now? I ain't been to the ponds nor creek since leavin' you that night, 'ceptin' once just 'fore dark. Got some catties an' one wallopin' eel. It's cloudy to-day an' may rain some. If you don't mind, s'posin' we go after catties 'long 'bout two o'clock? Aunt Mary'll let me go; she gen'ly does when the garden work's done and no errands to do. An' say," he ran on, scarcely taking breath, "you needn't bother none about bait. I've got a lot of worms washed and mossed; keep better that way; makes 'em tougher. If you look the moss over good an' pick out the dead grass ends the worms won't cut, 'nen keep 'em where it is nice and cool."

The boy had a peculiar method of abbreviation when speaking earnestly. His "and then" was usually corrupted into " 'nen," and so on through an original and regular vocabulary. " 'Ceptin'," he continued, "you might bring 'long a piece of beef if it's good and red. Catties take . it sometimes better'n worms. Funny, ain't it, how they'll notionate 'bout eatin' this a-way an' that? Got good hooks?" he asked. "They've got most all kinds here." So, upon inspection, a selection was made which suited the boy's idea

2 5 as to size. He examined the mark 2-0 on the end of the box with a puzzled air. "I d'know why they mark 'em that way," he thoughtfully observed. "There's a reason, I s'pose. Anyhow, that's good size, but most anything will catch catties, but might as well have 'em right. An' say, Mister, what does that mean?" His finger followed the word "Kir bed" on the blue label of the box.

The man explained that it meant the point was bent or sprung out from a straight line with the frame of the hook. The explanation was met with the simple monosyllabic "Oh," adding, however, as to himself: "They're dandy hooks, but too small for pike an' some too large for perch or sunnies." Here was a hint which was taken good-naturedly by the man, and their heads were soon together making selection, 4-0 for pike, as the boy persisted in calling them, and No. 12 for smaller fish.

The man divided his purchase equally with the boy, much to the latter's delight. He scurried away and from somewhere produced two large bottle corks and at once proceeded to place the hooks thereon, pressing the points well in. The man received a letter from home, the boy a newspaper for his aunt. They separated at the door, the boy calling back from quite a distance: "Meet you at the white bridge 'bout two, meb'e a little sooner," then went on down the road with his care-free swing, the man reflecting that there are Tom Sawyers or Huck Finns in every neighborhood awaiting another Mark Twain to record them.

The youngster was on the bridge at the time appointed, and as the man approached was industriously hurling bits of rock at a red squirrel in an adjacent tree, the squirrel as industriously dodging this way and that, now up, now down, then out on a limb as the rocks struck the trunk with resounding thwacks, meanwhile keeping up the blustering chatter of its nature.

The boy had not noticed the approach of his friend until he heard his step on the planks, so intent was he in his pursuit of the squirrel. Then he said: "Wish't I had a gun. Them chick-a-rees ain't no use 'cept to chase the big greys through the woods and rob every bird's nest in creation."

He, although uncouth of speech to a degree, was fast learning the ways of the wood folks as well as that of the denizens of the waters. The man noticed with pleasure that during their many excursions no coarse speech escaped the boy's lips, though crude in many ways and some of his sayings were uncanny. "There goes a flicker," he observed, as they passed by a large ash tree in the meadow. "I'll bet she's got a nest in that dead limb out there. See that hole?" His eyes took in carefully the trunk of the tree, which was much too large for him to attempt to climb. "High-holders we call 'em, but they can't sing, they just squawk."

"I didn't bring no pole with me to-day no more'n you," chattered on the boy, "We'll go over to the birch sprouts an' cut what's good an' limber. Most fun in catching catties is to see the pole bend, an' that gives 'em a chance to scoot around more; 'tain't no fun in jest hossin' 'em out. Got a knife? My name's Matt," he rambled on, "though most of folks here call me Mott. Why,. I don't know. What can I call you b'sides Mister?" The man good-naturedly informed him his name was Woodhull, at which the boy remained thoughtfully quiet for some time as though to fix the name indelibly in his mind. "They'll do," he remarked, as he looked the two birch poles with their white butts and red tops over critically which had been selected and closely trimmed. "They're good an' long, so we will use a line some shorter, so as when the pole is bent you can keep the fish comin' slow, but you get him." Mr. Woodhull had kept in view, since their first meeting, the intense, practical methods of the boy. The ethics of the game were his. He seemed at fault on no essential point.

Even when it came to baiting up, as he termed it, there was method. "See?" he said. "I do not run the hook all the way through the worm, but weave the hook in and out two or three times; that lets the worm live longer and does not tear it up so; b'sides, fish see it better if it wriggles."

They were at the place where the boy had said, the day of their first meeting, was good for catties, and each proceeded on his own initiative. Matt, first gauging the depth of the water, then set his float so that the bait would just clear the bottom as it moved about with the current.

"They're always on the bottom," he observed, "an' the closer you fish the more you'll get. There's no sense in puttin' on more'n one worm at a time; they don't get 'em in bunches 'ceptin' on some fool's hook. I fish away from the current an' more where it moves 'round in circles. See, there's one now." With a quick jump to his feet, the pliant pole was sent into quick doubles, the hooked fish darting here and there, but gradually being worked to the bank, where, with a flourish, the boy sent him into the air and laid him on the grass, a fine specimen of his tribe. "He's a broad-mouth," observed Matt; then to Mr. Woodhull: "Ever notice any difference in catties?" Perhaps the latter had in his early days, but if so had forgotten the fact. "See, the mouth is wide and head broad; some we get up in the little mill pond are different. Their heads are not near so broad and mouth smaller, and have white bellies always. An' this kind have plumb dirt-color bellies. I wonder why? This way I take 'em off," he said, walking over to his companion and placing his left thumb behind the fin on the right side of the fish, then the index and middle finger over the back and on either side of the back or dorsal spine ray, and so on over to the left side, thus pinioning all the dangcrous rays to a rigid position and under perfect control. Woodhull had known all this in his earlier days, and so many of the moves and methods of the boy Matt was like re-reading a well-known book. But time and business thoughts had swept them temporarily from his mind, and good it was to him to have this youthful mentor at his side not alone for his helpfulness, but his cheerful association and quaint sayings were always amusing and very interesting.

"Another thing," continued Matt, "there's no sense in battin' a fish or eel over the head with a stick or bangin' it on the ground, holdin' on to the line. I stick the knife blade just back of the head, 'nen push down hard and go through the backbone. The fish is dead in a jiffy; he can't wriggle 'round no more and saves lots of trouble. Say," he said, brightening up, "a man was down here last year fishin', and he said that fish never had pains. They had no 'pain nerves,' he called 'em; you couldn't hurt 'em same as a dog or cat. Do you believe that?" he asked earnestly. Then, as if a happy thought came to him, he said: "Gosh! if that's so, they never have the bellyache," and he laid down on the grass and giggled. The fish just taken was a good one of two pounds or more in weight, and as he had performed the operation he had last mentioned of cutting through the backbone close up to the head, the fish was limp and fast dying. "Is there any sense to them things, and if so, what?" he asked Mr.

3°

Woodhull, as he fingered the barbels on the lips and chin of the fish. He was told that they were much the same to a fish as the whiskers to a cat or dog; very sensitive to touch and no doubt helped the fish much in searching out its food. The only reply was the familiar "Oh." Fish were taking hold in fair shape, and both were content for a time to apply their attention to their respective lines, except when a larger one than usual was taken, or it might be a very small one, sufficient to cause comment, but little of conversation for a period ensued. "Did you bring along the beef?" finally asked the boy. "I'll try it and see what they say to it." The beef was produced and a small portion put on the hook by the boy and was quickly taken by a fish, the boy remarking: "See, they are hungry and will take most any kind of bait. Some days they are too lazy to bite at more'n worms, and then not always at them unless they want to.