E-text prepared by Michael Gray (Lost_Gamer@comcast.net)
FISHING WITH A WORM
FISHING
WITH A WORM
BY
BLISS PERRY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
MDCCCCXVI
FISHING WITH A WORM
"The last fish I caught was with a worm."—IZAAK WALTON.
A defective logic is the born fisherman's portion. He is a pattern ofinconsistency. He does the things which he ought not to do, and heleaves undone the things which other people think he ought to do. Heobserves the wind when he should be sowing, and he regards the clouds,with temptation tugging familiarly at his heartstrings, when he mightbe grasping the useful sickle. It is a wonder that there is so muchhealth in him. A sorrowing political economist remarked to me in earlyboyhood, as a jolly red-bearded neighbor, followed by an abnormally fatdog, sauntered past us for his nooning: "That man is the best carpenterin town, but he will leave the most important job whenever he wants togo fishing." I stared at the sinful carpenter, who swung alongleisurely in the May sunshine, keeping just ahead of his dog. To leaveone's job in order to go fishing! How illogical!
Years bring the reconciling mind. The world grows big enough to includewithin its scheme both the instructive political economist and thetruant mechanic. But that trick of truly logical behavior seems harderto the man than to the child. For example, I climbed up to my den underthe eaves last night—a sour, black sea-fog lying all about, and theDecember sleet crackling against the window-panes—in order to varnisha certain fly-rod. Now rods ought to be put in order in September, whenthe fishing closes, or else in April, when it opens. To varnish a rodin December proves that one possesses either a dilatory or a childishlyanticipatory mind. But before uncorking the varnish bottle, it occurredto me to examine a dog-eared, water-stained fly-book, to guard againstthe ravages of possible moths. This interlude proved fatal to thevarnishing. A half hour went happily by in rearranging the flies. Then,with a fisherman's lack of sequence, as I picked out here and there aplain snell-hook from the gaudy feathered ones, I said to myself with agenerous glow at the heart: "Fly-fishing has had enough sacred poetscelebrating it already. Is n't there a good deal to be said, after all,for fishing with a worm?"
Could there be a more illogical proceeding? And here follows thetreatise,—a Defense of Results, an Apology for Opportunism,—conceivedin agreeable procrastination, devoted to the praise of theinconsequential angleworm, and dedicated to a childish memory of awhistling carpenter and his fat dog.
Let us face the worst at the very beginning. It shall be a shamelessexample of fishing under conditions that make the fly a mockery. Takethe Taylor Brook, "between the roads," on the headwaters of theLamoille. The place is a jungle. The swamp maples and cedars werefelled a generation ago, and the tops were trimmed into the brook. Thealders and moosewood are higher than your head; on every tiny knoll thefir balsams have gained a footing, and creep down, impene