Verily, dear reader, he who wrote that verse, despite the pious murmurings of the rigidly righteous, and the cold shudderings of religious fanaticism at his shortcomings, must have been a man of largest heart and widest sympathies; and, properly understood, there is much truth, and no irreverence, in his own finding, that even
“The light which led astray
Was light from heaven.”
We were much amused the other day at seeing a heron, a long-necked, long-legged bird, doubtless familiar to the reader, for once in a “fix.” We say “for once,” for it is a most sagacious bird and thoroughly master of its own particular rôle, which, it is needless to say, is principally fish-catching. We were amusing ourselves on the sea-shore during low-water, watching the habits of periwinkles, hermit-crabs, star-fish, &c., when we observed a heron at some hundred yards distance, leaping about, wriggling its body, and performing other strange and unheron-like antics, as if it had suddenly gone mad. Knowing the staid and sober habits of the bird in general, we at once came to the conclusion that something extraordinary “was up,” and determined, if possible, to discover what it was. Making a slight détour to avoid alarming him—for it was a he, a very handsome, full-crested male—we easily managed to creep within fifty yards or so of him, and the cause of his excitement and unwonted posturings became at once apparent. He had caught an eel (a great dainty with the heron family) of about two feet in length, and of girth like a stout walking-stick, notwithstanding which, however, Mr. Heron would soon have satisfactorily dined upon it, had he not made a slight mistake in the mode of striking his prey. The eel was held in the heron’s bill at a point only some three or four inches from the extremity of its tail, the greater part of its body and its head being thus left at liberty to twist, and wriggle, and wallop about ad libitum. To swallow the eel in this position the heron knew was impossible, and to let it go, even for an instant, for the purpose of getting a better “grip” of his slippery customer was altogether out of the question. The heron was standing on the very margin of the sea, into which the eel, if for a moment at liberty, would have shot like an arrow. It was too large to be tossed into the air and recaught in its descent, as herons frequently do with other fish; and in short the heron was at his wit’s end, and wist not what to say or do. To make matters worse, the eel was wriggling and twisting about its captor’s legs, breechless and exposed legs be it observed, and might, for all we or the heron knew, take one of them at any time between its teeth, and sharp and cruel, as probably the heron knew, are an eel’s teeth when any part of an enemy has the misfortune to get between them. Apprehensive, doubtless, of some such danger, the heron danced and shuffled about, lifting now one leg and now another, as if he had been practising a new and somewhat complicated hornpipe. He would at one time leap a foot or two to one side, and immediately after spring into the air as many inches, attempting the while to strike his prey against the stones, but always failing in doing this effectually, owing to want of sufficient “purchase” and the insecurity of his hold. Having watched this novel combat for some time, we made a rush to the scene of action, hoping to succeed in surprising, perhaps, both the spoiler and his prey. We were disappointed. The heron instantly took wing, carrying the eel for some instance in his sharp-edged and powerful bill, but finally dropping it into the sea, doubtless confessing to himself, as he indignantly winged his flight to another fishing ground, that once in his life at least he had caught a Tartar.
CHAPTER XI.
Sea-Fishing—Loch and Stream Fishing—“Brindled Worms”—Rush-Lights—Buckie-Shell Lamps—The Weasel killing a Hare—Killing a Fallow Deer Fawn.
Though by no means everything that we could wish it, the weather of the last fortnight [July 1870] was a decided improvement on that of the preceding, and people have managed to get their hay secured in tolerably good condition after all. No appearance of the much-dreaded potato blight as yet; pity that it should show its unwished-for face this year at all, for a finer crop never lay ripening in the ground. Something has been done in herring fishing, and there is some prospect of our having enough for local consumption at all events, and perhaps a little over, which is no small matter in those dear times. Other kinds of fish are plentiful, and, with sufficient leisure for the pastime, there is hardly anything of the kind more enjoyable in fine weather than an afternoon’s or early morning’s fishing with rod or hand-line. You never, besides, see the country so well as on these occasions, or so thoroughly understand the full force of the poet’s beautiful line, that in such scenes
“’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view.”
Any number of trout, too—few of them, however, of any size—may be caught at present in our inland lochs and mountain streams, and a dish of these speckled beauties, fresh from the basket, is a very good thing indeed, though the grilse and salmon eater may turn up his nose in contempt and derision of such “small deer.” Let him; we shall be always prepared to take over his share along with our own! A curious request was made to us a short time ago by a well-known book “deliverer,” who frequently passes this way, one of the keenest and most successful fishers on lake or river we ever knew, and a very quiet decent man to boot. “Will you allow me, sir, to put down some worms in your place?” “To put down what?” we exclaimed in surprise. “Worms, sir, brindled worms for fishing with, when the rivers are swollen after heavy rains.” We begged to have a look at the worms, and they proved to be a variety of the common earthworm that we had never seen before, the difference consisting in their being rather smaller in size than the common earthworm, and prettily speckled and streaked all over their length, whence, doubtless, their name of brindled worms. A lot had been sent to him from Alyth, in Perthshire, very cunningly done up in a bunch of damp moss; and, having a few left over after a week’s most successful fishing, he wished to deposit them in this, a central part of his peregrinations, that they might multiply and be recoverable at any time he wanted them. Holding one by the middle, between index finger and thumb, in a manner that would have delighted the heart of old Izaak Walton, the worm wriggling and twisting the while with all the liveliness of an eel in similar circumstances, “There, sir,” he exclaimed, looking at the lively “brindled” as if he loved it, “there, sir, is a bonny ane! no troot that ever swam could resist having a dash at that in a brown and swollen stream.” In answer to our questions, he told us that the brindled colour of the worm had, he thought, a good deal to do with the trout’s liking for it, but, in his opinion, the brisk and lively motions of the worm upon the hook was the main attraction. The thing was so manifestly alive and active, and likely to escape, if not caught at once, that the trout made a rush at it, with his eyes shut, so to speak, and only discovered how thoroughly he had been done, when, hooked and landed, he lay flopping helplessly about on the green grass by the burn side. Getting piscator a spade, he searched about for a suitable spot, and buried his worms beneath the turf as tenderly as if he were laying babies asleep in their cradles. “There now, sir,” he remarked, as he finished his colonising, “they will breed fast, and soon be plentiful enough hereabouts, and they will destroy the common earthworm till not one can be found.” So that you see we had an interesting lesson on bait angling and the natural history of earthworms very unexpectedly from a very unexpected quarter. We still watch with interest if the assertion turns out to be true, that the brindled worm exterminates the common earthworm, notwithstanding their close relationship. Such a thing we know is quite possible, a notable case in point being the extermination of the old well-known black rat by the more modern coloniser, the brown.