Few and Short - Some Fishing Stories

By T. A. Waterhouse

This vintage book contains a collection of short stories and anecdotes related to fishing, originally published in the Birmingham Mail and the Fishing Gazette. These easy-to-read and often amusing anecdotes will appeal to all with a love for angling, and they are not to be missed by collectors of vintage fishing literature. Contents include: "Angler Integrity", "Futility of Faked Baits", "Depressing Story of Rural Cunning", "Intelligence of Cats", "Delightful December", "Intolerable Size Limit Laws", "A New Form of Indoor Sport", "Edible Qualities of Fire", "A False Alarm of Fire", "A Day of Variegated Luck", "An Instance of Thrift", "Advice which Failed to Find Acceptance", and "Ideal Holiday Home for Fishermen". Many vintage books such as this are increasingly scarce and expensive. We are republishing this volume now in an affordable, modern, high-quality edition complete with its original artwork and text. "Few and Short - Some Fishing Stories" was first published in 1930.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Read Country Books
• Release date: Sep 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781473341173

Book preview

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

THE days we town-bred anglers find to spend beside the rippling waters are rather like the fish we strive to land—lamentably few and short!

Yet it cheers us to recollect those brief delightful hours we have spent in pursuit of sport, things which have happened, and the fads and fancies of fishermen of every degree.

Therefore no one will object because some of these stories have been previously told in the Birmingham Mail and the Fishing Gazette, whose Editors have given kindly leave to publish them in this form.

T. A. WATERHOUSE.

CHAPTER I

ANGLER INTEGRITY

OF all the healthy forms of recreation we have left to us in these busy days of frantic haste, for the charm of soothing restful peace none can compare with the delightful sport of angling. It appeals to youth and age alike, and to people of all the different classes right throughout the year; for though it may be lightly supposed, among the uninitiated, that fishing with rod and line is merely a summertime occupation, many pleasant hours are spent beside the waters even in the very depth of winter when frost and snow have spread their white array in wood and meadow.

Though, by law established, there are protective periods when it is an offence to be found in possession of certain species, the sport of stalking fish, from salmon down to sticklebacks, is never really out of season from one year end to another, and it is particularly interesting to note how deeply the love of catching fishes is spread among succeeding generations of youngsters in every busy town and city; and in rural districts too. During the holiday period, when the weather is kindly fair, the town children cluster, boys and girls together, in an excited crowd, wherever a shallow pool or stream may shelter a share of sticklebacks and minnows. Neither do these small adventurers despise a search for tadpoles in the proper season, and wherever the water may be of a convenient depth to permit them to paddle they joyously throw aside all the customary laws which govern the taking of freshwater fish, and stoop to chase their tiny prey with a piece of old rag, or a handkerchief outspread for a net. When I recollect the passionate love these boys and girls display for this innocent pastime, and think of the grave dangers incurred by children of the slums at holiday times as they play in our motor-infested streets, I often wish that something might be done to create municipal fisheries for the special entertainment of these little ones wherever there might be space to make a shallow pool. In every corporation park I would have such a sheet of water, with a bed of smooth firm gravel, which would not injure little paddling feet; but these spots should be where children alone might play.

I would have every one of the pools frequently restocked with shoals of sticklebacks and minnows, and even a few little perch now and then by way of a special treat, and in all these artificial pools the children of the town should be at perfect liberty to fish and wade to their hearts’ content on summer days of holiday from school; disturbed by no one in their joyous sport.

Yet though we begin life together as lads and lassies, sharing equally a mutual love and eagerness to capture all the little fish we can, there comes an age when the restless sex seems to mainly lose the shining virtue of patience, without which none can ever hope to attain desirable angler success. This is a calamity too sad and dreary for contemplation, because it robs us of pleasant companionship in our sport at a time when the chief impression firmly planted in the feminine mind is that angler effort will ever be mainly directed to the pursuit of nothing more than little fry.

And just at this interesting stage in life, when boyhood days are beginning to be gripped and chained to industry, and holidays from school are known no more, we have traitors in our ranks who shamelessly betray us. They give up the chase of little fishes, and, with chocolate boxes and similar chicanery, they assiduously angle for specimens of the fairer sex. This thins our true-born angler host considerably, but the deserters—alas—have done nothing more than tiddler hunting, and so, for ever after, they nurse the grievous conviction that fishermen of every age get nothing but trembling little fingerlings as complete reward for all their careful effort to lure the finny tribe.

With this deep-rooted notion tempering their impartial attitude toward the angler in their later years they refuse to believe the stirring tale we tell of great fish, in the waters, which smash the tackle, or of those which sometimes fill the creel. They talk derisively in return of scarecrows in the fields with wide-extended arms; of residents in mental homes cordially requesting fishermen to come inside.

They pretend to seriously doubt our sanity, veracity, sobriety and honesty. I long to tell mankind that, solely in the interest of truth, I have taken careful note of angler transgression which has come to my eager notice during 21 years of happy continuous service as chief officer of the biggest freshwater fishing association throughout the wide world. I have but a little tale to tell. The incidents—of wrongdoing or even suspicion thereof—have been remarkably rare. The first concerns a midnight ride with a very select party of anglers who were travelling to the Fens in a saloon railway carriage specially reserved. I had a most pressing invitation to join the excursion.

I only knew one member of the party, and, when he introduced me to the rest of the company, I was rather startled to find there was a clergyman with the crowd. We settled down sociably while the train tore onward through the night, and presently, one by one, all the lot of them swayed, nodded and blinked, until they snored in sleep. At least that is all except a couple of us, the parson and myself; and I was altogether too uneasy to rest. It occurred to me—sadly—there had been many lamentable deficiencies in my early training, and I had a sinking feeling the reverend gentleman would quickly discover my deplorable depravity if he submitted me to any sort of cross-examination.

It soothed me to find he took comparatively little notice of my presence, but fell to rummaging industriously among the creels, haversacks, coats, rods, and parcels jumbled along the luggage racks. With a sigh of intense satisfaction, after a prolonged search, the parson settled down with a huge package of grub he had retrieved from the tangle, and began to eat with an appetite like you can read of occasionally in the patent medicine advertisements.

I was beginning to wonder how long the vicar would keep the performance going, and half envying him his keen enjoyment of the fare, when all at once he turned to me and said, Now this is very curious! My wife has actually packed this beautiful cake with my food. Yet, you know, I never hardly get anything like this at home. Then, with a hearty will, he proceeded to absorb that massive lump of cake without delay.

He was carefully brushing the crumbs from his clerical garb when the train slowed up at a busy junction, and a porter, with a rasping voice, came roaring round to tell us where we were. The noise woke half a dozen of the sleepy ones who appeared to be particular pals, for they stretched, yawned, and joked together until they became wakeful enough for one of them to suggest it was time to eat from a store in which they held a co-operative share. The suggestion met with ready approval, and one began to search for the needed goods. He looked, growled and probed, but met with small success. The others joined him in a fruitless search. In blank amazement they began to question one another, to try and trace whether the food had actually ever been brought on the train; and one of them swore he remembered to have seen a parcel, wrapped in brown paper, safely installed on the rack. This mention of brown paper appeared to rouse the parson from a seemingly delightful reverie.

Pardon me, he murmured gently, but have you lost your food?

We certainly have, replied the refreshment seekers in ready chorus.

And, questioned the parson, raising his right arm with a gesture of benevolent interest, was there a cake in the parcel?

Of course there was, one of the fishermen responded, a nice big cake my missis made.

Then, said the parson, slowly, with a regretful sigh, "I am sorry to tell you that I have made a mistake. I thought the