Fishin Jimmy | Page 3

as brief and
simple as Quaker yea or nay; the winter-wren sending out his strange,
lovely, liquid warble from the high, rocky side of Cannon Mountain;
the bluebird of the early spring, so welcome to the winter-weary
dwellers in that land of ice and show, as he
"From the bluer deeps Lets fall a quick, prophetic strain,"
of summer, of streams freed and flowing again, of waking, darting,
eager fish; the veery, the phoebe, the jay, the vireo,--all these were
friends, familiar, tried and true to Fishin' Jimmy. The cluck and coo of

the cuckoo, the bubbling song of bobolink in buff and black, the watery
trill of the stream-loving swamp-sparrow, the whispered whistle of the
stealthy, darkness-haunting whippoorwill, the gurgle and gargle of the
cow-bunting,--he knew each and all, better than did Audubon, Nuttall,
or Wilson. But he never dreamed that even the tiniest of his little
favorites bore, in the scientific world, far away from that quiet
mountain nest, such names as Troglodytes hyemalis or Melospiza
palustris. He could tell you, too, of strange, shy creatures rarely seen
except by the early-rising, late-fishing angler, in quiet, lonesome places:
the otter, muskrat, and mink of ponds and lakes,--rival fishers, who
bore off prey sometimes from under his very eyes,--field-mice in
meadow and pasture, blind, burrowing moles, prickly hedge-hogs,
brown hares, and social, curious squirrels.
Sometimes he saw deer, in the early morning or in the dusk of the
evening, as they came to drink at the lake shore, and looked at him with
big, soft eyes not unlike his own. Sometimes a shaggy bear trotted
across his path and hid himself in the forest, or a sharp-eared fox ran
barking through the bushes. He loved to tell of these things to us who
cared to listen, and I still seem to hear his voice saying in hushed tones,
after a story of woodland sight or sound: "Nobody don't see 'em but
fishermen. Nobody don't hear 'em but fishermen."

II
But it was of another kind of knowledge he oftenest spoke, and of
which I shall try to tell you, in his own words as nearly as possible.
First let me say that if there should seem to be the faintest tinge of
irreverence in aught I write, I tell my story badly. There was no
irreverence in Fishin' Jimmy. He possessed a deep and profound
veneration for all things spiritual and heavenly; but it was the
veneration of a little child, mingled as is that child's with perfect
confidence and utter frankness. And he used the dialect of the country
in which he lived.

"As I was tellin' ye," he said, "I allers loved fishin' an' knowed 't was
the best thing in the hull airth. I knowed it larnt ye more about creeters
an' yarbs an' stuns an' water than books could tell ye. I knowed it made
folks patienter an' commonsenser an' weather-wiser an' cuter gen'ally;
gin 'em more fac'lty than all the school larnin' in creation. I knowed it
was more fillin' than vittles, more rousin' than whisky, more soothin'
than lodlum. I knowed it cooled ye off when ye was het, an' het ye
when ye was cold. I knowed all that, o' course--any fool knows it.
But--will ye b'l'eve it?--I was more 'n twenty-one year old, a man
growed, 'fore I foun' out why 't was that away. Father an' mother was
Christian folks, good out-an'-out Calv'nist Baptists from over East'n
way. They fetched me up right, made me go to meetin' an' read a
chapter every Sunday, an' say a hymn Sat'day night a'ter washin'; an' I
useter say my prayers mos' nights. I wa'n't a bad boy as boys go. But
nobody thought o' tellin' me the one thing, jest the one single thing, that
'd ha' made all the diffunce. I knowed about God, an' how he made me
an' made the airth, an' everything an' once I got thinkin' about that, an' I
asked my father if God made the fishes. He said 'course he did, the sea
an' all that in 'em is; but somehow that did n't seem to mean nothin'
much to me, an' I lost my int'rist agin. An' I read the Scripter account o'
Jonah an' the big fish, an' all that in Job about pullin' out levi'thing with
a hook an' stickin' fish spears in his head, an' some parts in them queer
books nigh the end o' the ole Test'ment about fish-ponds an' fish-gates
an' fish-pools, an' how the fishers shall l'ment--everything I could pick
out about fishin' an' seen; but it did n't come home to me; 't wa'n't my
kind o' fishin' an' I did n't seem ter sense it.
"But one day--it's more 'n forty year ago now, but I rec'lect