SUNDAY INSPIRATION. 



E. M. LEETE. 



If the 29th of June had not been a rainy 

 Sunday this yarn would probably never 

 have been written. As things happened, 

 however, it rained hard all day. The 30th 

 and last day of the month was Monday, and 

 was also the close of the open season for 

 brook trout. Whether fishing is a habit, 

 disease or hobby, I can not say, but after 

 one has contracted the appetite for fishing 

 it is hard to break off. I could always see 

 more days when I knew fish would bite than 

 days that I should call good days to work 

 in. 



That Sunday morning my wife, my 3 

 children and I attended church. My wife 

 occupied the farther end of the pew, I next 

 the aisle, and the children between us. It 

 is always pleasant for me to attend church 

 with my family, to feel that the cares and 

 troubles of the week are past, and that 

 Sunday, set apart for us as a day of rest, is 

 once more* to be enjoyed. I listened to the 

 organ voluntary and to the minister as he 

 opened the service. About in the middle of 

 prayer before the sermon the storm outside 

 suddenly increased. The rain came down 

 in torrents and ran in floods from the 

 eaves. I was glad to be under shelter and 

 to feel that my family were sheltered with 

 me. With this thought came an idea that 

 was entirely out of place. 



A mile or more from my home is a small 

 brook that lacks only one thing to be quite 

 a success as brooks go. The one thing lack- 

 ing is water. From the hills and woods 

 back of the village comes this little stream, 

 so small one can easily step over it; and in 

 the meadow the grasses grow so rank that 

 they cover the stream entirely except in the 

 wider places. Down through the fresh 

 meadow it runs, across the road, and into 

 the salt meadow beyond, where from a 

 clear and limpid trout stream it becomes 

 simply a salt creek. It never, to my knowl- 

 edge, quite ran dry, although in midsummer 

 there was hardly water enough to furnish a 

 horse a good drink. This brook, when bank 

 full, late in the season, was almost sure 

 to contain trout, and this same brook 

 made all the mischief with me that rainy 

 Sunday morning. I stood it very well until 

 the water poured from the eaves, when it 

 flashed through my mind that if this would 

 only continue, Monday morning early would 

 be the time to fish this stream. The rain 

 would fill the brook, Monday was the last 

 day, and, furthermore, I was sure the brook 

 had not been fished for some time. This 

 whole combination made sad work of my 

 Sunday service. 



I do not approve of Sunday fishing. I 

 never caught a fish on Sunday in my life, 

 and I knew the house of God was not the 

 place to plan a fishing excursion ; but my 

 mind was wandering. I wondered whether 

 the rain would continue, whether it would 

 be clear in the morning, and where I could 

 find any worms. After awhile I straight- 

 ened myself up and put such worldly 

 thoughts out of my head. The minister 

 was to blame for the rest, when he gave 

 out his text, John 21, 3 : "Simon Peter saith 

 unto them, 'I go a-fishing.' " 



That was the cap sheaf, and I wondered 

 whether Peter had a split bamboo or a 

 steel rod ; whether he was a fly fisherman 

 or used worms for bait ; and whether it w r as 

 not breaking the law to take so many fish 

 with one haul of the net. About that time 

 there was a commotion in the farther end 

 of the pew. Something ailed my wife and 

 I found the plate was being passed for the 

 collection. I looked at the Mrs. with mild 

 reproach and put in our offering. When we 

 returned home my wife accused me of hav- 

 ing slept in church. 



That night before retiring I found my 

 tackle. Early the next morning I w r as up. 

 My wife asked me what was the matter, 

 and I gave her to understand that I would 

 be busy all day and wanted to get a good 

 start. After making a fire I prospected 

 around for some worms. Now, farming as 

 a business I object to, and hoeing in par- 

 ticular ; but before I had what worms I 

 wanted our tomato patch was thoroughly 

 cultivated. It was not just what you call 

 smooth ; but the weeds were killed. The 

 worms were in my box and my wife would 

 surely be pleased with my gardening. 



Stopping long enough to drink a cup of 

 coffee and tell madam that I was "just go- 

 ing up on the brook a while/' I started. To 

 reach the stream it was necessary to go 

 through a field of young corn and the tall 

 grass in the meadow beyond. Then I real- 

 ized that rubber boots were a mistake. 

 What was needed was a bathing suit. The 

 lower part of my legs was dry, but from my 

 knees to my hips I was wet through. The 

 grass was so tall that I almost despaired 

 of finding the brook, and wondered if it 

 had not been moved since my last visit. 

 However, a little patch of water was visi- 

 ble, and into that I dropped my hook, re- 

 calling a definition I had once read of the 

 word "fisherman," "A pole with a string at 

 one end and a fool at the other." 



All the same, I felt a bite and landed a 

 small trout. My creel was home, so I 



428 



