Crockers Hole | Page 7

full of resignation as he
was, John Pike came slowly to the sad perception that arts avail not
without arms. The elbow, so often jerked, at last took a voluntary jerk
from the shoulder, and Alec Bolt lay prostrate, with his right eye full of
cobbler's wax. This put a desirable check upon his energies for a week
or more, and by that time Pike had flown his fly.
When the honeymoon of spring and summer (which they are now too
fashionable to celebrate in this country), the hey-day of the whole year
marked by the budding of the wild rose, the start of the wheatear from
its sheath, the feathering of the lesser plantain, and flowering of the
meadowsweet, and, foremost for the angler's joy, the caracole of
May-flies--when these things are to be seen and felt (which has not
happened at all this year), then rivers should be mild and bright, skies
blue and white with fleecy cloud, the west wind blowing softly, and the
trout in charming appetite.
On such a day came Pike to the bank of Culm, with a loudly beating
heart. A fly there is, not ignominious, or of cowdab origin, neither
gross and heavy-bodied, from cradlehood of slimy stones, nor yet of
menacing aspect and suggesting deeds of poison, but elegant, bland,
and of sunny nature, and obviously good to eat. Him or her--why quest
we which?--the shepherd of the dale, contemptuous of gender, except
in his own species, has called, and as long as they two coexist will call,
the "Yellow Sally." A fly that does not waste the day in giddy dances
and the fervid waltz, but undergoes family incidents with decorum and
discretion. He or she, as the case may be,--for the natural history of the
river bank is a book to come hereafter, and of fifty men who make flies
not one knows the name of the fly he is making,--in the early morning

of June, or else in the second quarter of the afternoon, this Yellow Sally
fares abroad, with a nice well-ordered flutter.
Despairing of the May-fly, as it still may be despaired of, Pike came
down to the river with his master-piece of portraiture. The artificial
Yellow Sally is generally always--as they say in Cheshire--a mile or
more too yellow. On the other hand, the "Yellow Dun" conveys no idea
of any Sally. But Pike had made a very decent Sally, not perfect (for he
was young as well as wise), but far above any counterfeit to be had in
fishing-tackle shops. How he made it, he told nobody. But if he lives
now, as I hope he does, any of my readers may ask him through the
G.P.O., and hope to get an answer.
It fluttered beautifully on the breeze, and in such living form, that a
brother or sister Sally came up to see it, and went away sadder and
wiser. Then Pike said: "Get away, you young wretch," to your humble
servant who tells this tale; yet being better than his words, allowed that
pious follower to lie down upon his digestive organs and with deep
attention watch, There must have been great things to see, but to see
them so was difficult. And if I huddle up what happened, excitement
also shares the blame.
Pike had fashioned well the time and manner of this overture. He knew
that the giant Crockerite was satiate now with May-flies, or began to
find their flavour failing, as happens to us with asparagus, marrow-fat
peas, or strawberries, when we have had a month of them. And he
thought that the first Yellow Sally of the season, inferior though it were,
might have the special charm of novelty. With the skill of a Zulu, he
stole up through the branches over the lower pool till he came to a spot
where a yard-wide opening gave just space for spring of rod. Then he
saw his desirable friend at dinner, wagging his tail, as a hungry
gentleman dining with the Lord Mayor agitates his coat. With one
dexterous whirl, untaught by any of the many-books upon the subject,
John Pike laid his Yellow Sally (for he cast with one fly only) as lightly
as gossamer upon the rapid, about a yard in front of the big trout's head.
A moment's pause, and then, too quick for words, was the things that
happened.

A heavy plunge was followed by a fearful rush. Forgetful of current the
river was ridged, as if with a plough driven under it; the strong line,
though given out as fast as might be, twanged like a harp-string as it cut
the wave, and then Pike stood up, like a ship dismasted, with the butt of
his rod snapped below the ferrule. He had one of those