I care not now, for the fight has been a glorious one, but the “pole” survives to fight many another fight; the trout is turned and, at last, comes side up, to the boat, vanquished but not subdued.
Here, in another paper, are three flies fastened together. A Chicken Red Palmer Hackle, a Grizzly King and a fly with black body, brown wings, red tail and tip. They are large trout flies and won honorable retirement by catching three small-mouthed black bass at one and the same time. Fishing from a boat in the Hudson River, above a long rough rapid, I cast inshore and saw the stretcher fly taken by a small bass; immediately after the two droppers were taken by other bass that did not show themselves when taking the lures. My rod was the same that I have already mentioned, an ash and lancewood of eight ounces—scale weight—and my entire attention was directed to it and the fish, that were bending it like a willow wand; when, suddenly, I discovered that the boatman had also been interested in the play of the fish and allowed the boat to drift into the swift water at the head of the rapids. The boatman made an effort to row up stream at the same time the fish decided to go down, and I found I must either smash my tackle and lose the fish—at this time I had seen but the one bass that took the stretcher fly—or run the rapids at the risk of an upset. I was very anxious to see the size of the fish that were struggling on my leader in that swift running water, and every angler will know the decision that was instantly made, to “shoot the rapids.”
The sight of these old tinseled lures brings back to me the wild excitement of that driving, whirling ride through the racing, seething waters. Hatless I crouch down in the boat, one hand clutching the gunwale of the broad river craft, and the other holding aloft my rod. I give no thought to the possible fate of the occupants of the boat. My anxiety is for the fish. When the curved line is straight again, will I feel the bass at the end or only the bare flies? These very flies!
Very soon the boat is rocking in the lumpy water at the foot of the chute, and I stand up, fill my lungs, and find my fish are still fast. Here in the broad water I bring to net three small-mouthed bass that together weigh four and one-quarter pounds, only one of which, at any time, showed himself above water. As I put the faded flies back into their paper coverings I find that my pulse has quickened and my pipe no longer burns.
I must not exhibit all my treasures here, to the public. These old souvenirs are only for the eyes of sympathizing angling friends when we meet to blow a cloud and talk of other days.
A little brown-eyed maiden once, looking into my fly-book, asked why I had the old frayed flies tied up in separate papers and marked, while the nice new flies did not show this care. Had she been of maturer years I might have quoted Alonzo of Aragon’s commendation of old friends, but instead, I merely said:
“The nice new flies I can easily buy, but no one sells such old flies, therefore I take the greater care of them because of their rarity.”
The new flies will not be slighted, for they, also, have their season of admiration and caressing touch. When their day has come the old veterans of many a fight will not be forgotten either, but while maturing plans for augmenting their numbers, the recruits in their new, bright dress will be inspected to see what claims they may have for future honors.
The lengthening days and diminishing snowbanks naturally turn the angler’s thoughts forward, and he sniffs the south wind as though he would discover some slight remaining odor of fragrant apple blossoms borne to him from the far southland as the forerunner of warm air, blue sky, bursting buds, open streams, green grass, “gentle spring,” and time to go a-fishing. Then the untried flies are examined and speculation is rife as to their excellence, each for its own particular kind of fish.
Day dreams and evening musings give place to an activity of mind and body when fishing is under consideration. The lessons of the last season and other seasons are brought to bear to perfect all arrangements for a fresh campaign. Consultations with brother anglers are frequent, and plans many and various are weighed and discussed. The tackle box is overhauled again and again, notwithstanding the attention paid to it at the close of the last season, to be sure that nothing is wanting or left undone. Lines are tested; leaders are subjected to the closest scrutiny to see that no flaws or chafed places exist to give way at a critical moment during some future contest, when a trifle will turn the scales; reels are taken apart and carefully oiled; rods sent to the maker for a new coat of varnish, and, perhaps, a few new whippings for the guide rings; fishing shoes, although they have a row of holes just above the soles, get an extra dressing of oil to keep the leather soft; and an inventory of the wardrobe is taken and old garments are selected that appear for the time, considering the use they are to serve, far more faultless than when first sent home by the tailor. “About these days your business letters, if written to people into whose souls the love of angling has entered, may terminate as follows: