Crockers Hole | Page 8

foolish things,
just invented, a hollow butt of hickory; and the finial ring of his spare
top looked out, to ask what had happened to the rest of it. "Bad luck!"
cried the fisherman; "but never mind, I shall have him next time, to a
certainty."
When this great issue came to be considered, the cause of it was sadly
obvious. The fish, being hooked, had made off with the rush of a shark
for the bottom of the pool. A thicket of saplings below the alder tree
had stopped the judicious hooker from all possibility of following; and
when he strove to turn him by elastic pliance, his rod broke at the
breach of pliability. "I have learned a sad lesson," said John Pike,
looking sadly.
How many fellows would have given up this matter, and glorified
themselves for having hooked so grand a fish, while explaining that
they must have caught him, if they could have done it! But Pike only
told me not to say a word about it, and began to make ready for another
tug of war. He made himself a splice-rod, short and handy, of
well-seasoned ash, with a stout top of bamboo, tapered so discreetly,
and so balanced in its spring, that verily it formed an arc, with any
pressure on it, as perfect as a leafy poplar in a stormy summer. "Now
break it if you can," he said, "by any amount of rushes; I'll hook you by
your jacket collar; you cut away now, and I'll land you."
This was highly skilful, and he did it many times; and whenever I was
landed well, I got a lollypop, so that I was careful not to break his
tackle. Moreover he made him a landing net, with a kidney-bean stick,
a ring of wire, and his own best nightcap of strong cotton net. Then he
got the farmer's leave, and lopped obnoxious bushes; and now the
chiefest question was: what bait, and when to offer it? In spite of his
sad rebuff, the spirit of John Pike had been equable. The genuine
angling mind is steadfast, large, and self-supported, and to the vapid,

ignominious chaff, tossed by swine upon the idle wind, it pays as much
heed as a big trout does to a dance of midges. People put their fingers
to their noses and said: "Master Pike, have you caught him yet?" and
Pike only answered: "Wait a bit." If ever this fortitude and
perseverance is to be recovered as the English Brand (the one thing that
has made us what we are, and may yet redeem us from niddering
shame), a degenerate age should encourage the habit of fishing and
never despairing. And the brightest sign yet for our future is the
increasing demand for hooks and gut.
Pike fished in a manlier age, when nobody would dream of cowering
from a savage because he was clever at skulking; and when, if a big
fish broke the rod, a stronger rod was made for him, according to the
usage of Great Britain. And though the young angler had been defeated,
he did not sit down and have a good cry over it.
About the second week in June, when the May-fly had danced its day,
and died,--for the season was an early one,--and Crocker's trout had
recovered from the wound to his feelings and philanthropy, there came
a night of gentle rain, of pleasant tinkling upon window ledges, and a
soothing patter among young leaves, and the Culm was yellow in the
morning, "I mean to do it this afternoon," Pike whispered to me, as he
came back panting. "When the water clears there will be a splendid
time."
The lover of the rose knows well a gay voluptuous beetle, whose
pleasure is to lie embedded in a fount of beauty. Deep among the
incurving petals of the blushing-fragrance, he loses himself in his joys
sometimes, till a breezy waft reveals him. And when the sunlight
breaks upon his luscious dissipation, few would have the heart to oust
him, such a gem from such a setting. All his back is emerald sparkles
all his front red Indian gold, and here and there he grows white spots to
save the eye from aching. Pike put his finger in and fetched him out,
and offered him a little change of joys, by putting a Limerick
hook-through his thorax, and bringing it out between his elytra. Cetonia
aurata liked it not, but pawed the air very naturally, and fluttered with
his wings attractively.

"I meant to have tried with a fern-web," said the angler; "until I saw
one of these beggars this morning. If he works like that upon the water,
he will do. It was hopeless to try artificials again. What a lovely colour