Fishin Jimmy

Fishin' Jimmy

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Fishin' Jimmy, by Annie Trumbull
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Title: Fishin' Jimmy
Author: Annie Trumbull Slosson
Release Date: May 23, 2004 [EBook #12417]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FISHIN'
JIMMY ***

Produced by Al Haines

FISHIN' JIMMY
BY
ANNIE TRUMBULL SLOSSON
AUTHOR'S EDITION

1889

FISHIN' JIMMY
It was on the margin of Pond Brook, just back of Uncle Eben's, that I
first saw Fishin' Jimmy. It was early June, and we were again at
Franconia, that peaceful little village among the northern hills.
The boys, as usual, were tempting the trout with false fly or real worm,
and I was roaming along the bank, seeking spring flowers, and hunting
early butterflies and moths. Suddenly there was a little plash in the
water at the spot where Ralph was fishing, the slender tip of his rod
bent, I heard a voice cry out, "Strike him, sonny, strike him!" and an
old man came quickly but noiselessly through the bushes, just as
Ralph's line flew up into space, with, alas! no shining, spotted trout
upon the hook. The new comer was a spare, wiry man of middle height,
with a slight stoop in his shoulders, a thin brown face, and scanty gray
hair. He carried a fishing-rod, and had some small trout strung on a
forked stick in one hand. A simple, homely figure, yet he stands out in
memory just as I saw him then, no more to be forgotten than the granite
hills, the rushing streams, the cascades of that north country I love so
well.
We fell into talk at once, Ralph and Waldo rushing eagerly into
questions about the fish, the bait, the best spots in the stream,
advancing their own small theories, and asking advice from their new
friend. For friend he seemed even in that first hour, as he began simply,
but so wisely, to teach my boys the art he loved. They are older now,
and are no mean anglers, I believe; but they look back gratefully to
those brookside lessons, and acknowledge gladly their obligations to
Fishin' Jimmy. But it is not of these practical teachings I would now
speak; rather of the lessons of simple faith, of unwearied patience, of
self-denial and cheerful endurance, which the old man himself seemed
to have learned, strangely enough, from the very sport so often called
cruel and murderous. Incomprehensible as it may seem, to his simple

intellect the fisherman's art was a whole system of morality, a guide for
every-day life, an education, a gospel. It was all any poor mortal man,
woman, or child, needed in this world to make him or her happy, useful,
good.
At first we scarcely realized this, and wondered greatly at certain things
he said, and the tone in which he said them. I remember at that first
meeting I asked him, rather carelessly, "Do you like fishing?" He did
not reply at first; then he looked at me with those odd, limpid,
green-gray eyes of his which always seemed to reflect the clear waters
of mountain streams, and said very quietly: "You would n't ask me if I
liked my mother--or my wife." And he always spoke of his pursuit as
one speaks of something very dear, very sacred. Part of his story I
learned from others, but most of it from himself, bit by bit, as we
wandered together day by day in that lovely hill-country. As I tell it
over again I seem to hear the rush of mountain streams, the "sound of a
going in the tops of the trees," the sweet, pensive strain of white-throat
sparrow, and the plash of leaping trout; to see the crystal-clear waters
pouring over granite rock, the wonderful purple light upon the
mountains, the flash and glint of darting fish, the tender green of early
summer in the north country.
Fishin' Jimmy's real name was James Whitcher. He was born in the
Franconia Valley of northern New Hampshire, and his whole life had
been passed there. He had always fished; he could not remember when
or how he learned the art. From the days when, a tiny, bare-legged
urchin in ragged frock, he had dropped his piece of string with its bent
pin at the end into the narrow, shallow brooklet behind his father's
house, through early boyhood's season of roaming along Gale River,
wading Black Brook, rowing a leaky boat on Streeter or Mink Pond,
through youth, through manhood, on and