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. 



