FISHES OF MY CHILDHOOD 17 



I had been told that fish have such an acute 

 sense of seeing and hearing, that I should have 

 to crawl like a Red Indian when approaching the 

 bank, and not utter a sound, or they would not 

 attempt to bite. So, out of sight of the water 

 we set to work to get our tackle ready. All went 

 well until I had to place one of the red worms on 

 my hook. It was a part of the performance I had 

 not rehearsed, and the worm was slippery and 

 wriggled, and my small hands trembled with 

 excitement and impatience. I made a prod at 

 the middle the fattest part of the wretched 

 creature, and nearly drove the hook into my 

 finger. At last I managed to get the hook into 

 the worm, who objected to the proceedings even 

 more than I did, and twisted and twirled so 

 horribly that I had to ask my brother to come 

 and see what could be done to make matters 

 better and, finally, with becoming caution, we 

 approached the pond. 



There, on the edge of a tolerably high bank* 

 we sat down in dead silence, and after solemnly 

 taking the depth and adjusting the floats, we 

 cast in our lines and waited. The pond was 

 said to hold plenty of tench and a few perch, 

 and I had been told that these two fish negotiate 

 a bait differently. 



