Sept. 2, 1905.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
193 
Meditations of an Angler. 
III. — The Old Mill Pond. 
They, the Powers, called it a mill pond — they, the 
big of body but small of mind, whose power consisted 
of their size and the many years it had taken them to 
acquire it. To us who really knew, it was an ocean as 
boundless as the realms of our imagination and as deep 
as that other sky you could see on a still day far, far 
down below in the dark depths of the water. And on ■ 
this ocean sailed many beautiful ships, a fanciful fleet of 
dreams, that sometimes touched at our port, and bore 
us away, so far away, to lands not shown on any 
mariner’s chart. 
They with the eyes that could not see, knew nothing 
of these beautiful ships. Perchance they may have at 
one time in their lives, but it had been so long ago 
that they had forgotten how to distinguish one of these 
wonderful vessels when it sailed majestically into port; 
neither did they know the magic watch word, without 
which no one could take passage on any of these boats. 
To them a piece of drift wood floating by, or a dead 
leaf being lightly blown along the surface of the water 
meant nothing more than was outwardly visible , to the 
uneducated eye. They could not know, nor did we 
expect them to, that that dark piece of drift wood vras 
in reality a large ocean-going vessel — a galley most 
likely, from the looks of her- — bound for the land of 
Ophir or one of the “Delectable Isles,” or that the 
dead leaf was a graceful, white-winged shallop, outward 
bound into the great unknown, and that we had only 
but to choose which one should be ours. 
I wonder if we could recognize our own fleet of ships 
to-day. It is only a few of the favored ones whose 
vision remains clear and undefiled through all the long 
years. 
This mill pond— for the sake of harmony we shall 
so designate it — was altogether different from any mill 
pond that ever shed its waters over an old, moss- 
covered, wooden dam. You probably know of a pond 
somewhere just as different in its way, but it is very 
doubtful if its “way” would compare favorably with this 
one of ours. Ours was a wonderful body of water. 
At one ^ end was the old stone mill, standing there 
like the ruins of some ancient castle. To the best of 
our belief it had always stood there unchanged and 
unchangeable, and would always stand so long as the 
foundations of the world remained unmoved. It was 
a big, square, stone structure, with yawning openings 
in place of doors and windows, enveloped in the gloomy 
atmosphere of desolation. I have never seen a build- 
ing of its kind since that seemed so big. It was a 
peculiar building. At night it was three times as big 
as it was in the day time — especially if one had to pass 
it alone. 
Of course it was haunted, haunted by the worst 
“hant” that ever scared a boy half to death. None of 
us ever saw the ghost, or whatever it was. To look 
upon it would have been — well, there is no telling just 
what would have happened. To doubt its existence 
would have been like doubting the Ten Commandments. 
We were conscious of its awful presence, always, and 
seldom ventured alone within the walls of its dwelling, 
even when “stumped” to do so in the cheerful light of 
day. 
Some envious one will doubtless rise up and declare 
that this hant was no worse than some hants he used 
to know about before he reached the folly of man’s 
estate; but such a one knoweth not whereof he de- 
clareth. Of course there were other hants — lots and 
lots of them. In my youth I considered myself quite 
an authority on the subject. I knew of half a dozen — 
favorites of ours, as it were — that could have more than 
stirred the quills on a fretful porcupine; but it — this 
awful thing of the mill which we never dared even 
whisper about, nay, hardly think about- — it, with one 
chilling breath, would have made a fretful porcupine 
look like a par-boiled possum. ' A fellow had to have 
his nerve with him, I tell you, to pass that mill alone 
after dark. You dared not run, because there was an 
ugly tempered dog on the other side of the street who 
considered running, after business hours, a deliberate 
challenge, an excuse to attack you basely in the rear. 
But ^nt, and dog and all, the mill, with its mill-racc 
crumbling slowly to decay and the water gates closed 
for all time, added much to the attractiveness of the 
pond itself. And beside the mill was the old wooden 
dam, slimy and slippery and green with age, over which 
the water splashed in a thin, transparent sheet, or 
roared- .tumultuously in a torrent, according to the 
temper.- of the pond itself and the condition of the 
weather.- This old dam was all that could be d.esired, 
althouglj the Powers had declared it forbidden gtound. 
In the spring of the •'•ear it was a famous place' for 
redho'rse, and suckers. That was the only season when 
we, emboldened by numbers, became very familiar. with 
the dani-,- and an air of solitude at all times - brooded 
over the.p.lace. - 
On one side of the pond, not far from the mill, .there 
was a row of willows, large, wide spreading trees with 
their branches hanging low, far over the water. The 
largest of these trees held a place of its own in our 
. small world. It was a trysting place or a rendezvous, 
a castle or a humble cot, a full-rigged ship — four-masted 
with all sails spread — or a more modern railway train 
that traversed anywhere and everywhere at a wonder- 
ful rate of speed. Indeed, it was all things f© all of us 
at all times. Only in the dull moments, when over- 
worked imaginations flagged and life became devoid 
of entertainment for the nonce, did it rfFtHy assume its 
proper semblance of a tree. 
I remember something that happened to me in this 
very tree one time that left an indelible impression upon 
my mind, likewise my heart. One large limb of the tree 
extended far over the water. For the edification of a 
young and beautiful matron whom I secretly adored, 
and intended to win and wed so soon as I had put her 
objectionable husband out of the way, for her edifica- 
tion, I say, I was “playing smart” on the slippery sur- 
face of this limb, with a recklessness born of' blighted 
hopes and a heart surcharged with unrequited passion. 
She cautioned me to be careful. I laughed a mirthless 
laugh, or at least I tried to make it mirthless. I know 
it sounded throaty. I would show her how lightly I 
valued my ruined life. And I showed her. .1 think I 
essayed to- “skin the cat.” I know that I landed flat on 
my face in a foot or two of mud and water. 
Whether it was her heartless laughter or the sudden 
wetting that dampened my ardor, I have never fully 
decided. Sufficient unto the day. From that time on I 
avoided her, and for the space of three weeks renewed 
my attentions to Annie, the washer-woman’s seductive 
daughter — she whom I had so lightly cast aside for this 
other fickle, cold-hearted woman. 
At the foot of this big willow tree was a small boat 
house and a pier. Both the boat house and the pier 
possessed possibilities not unlike those of the tree. 
Father Noah would have raved with envy could he 
but have seen us voyaging on the flood in our wonder- 
ful ark. Imagine his chagrin, if he had taken us for 
castaways floating about on- a boat house, and had 
hastened to our rescue, when he got near enough to 
discover what we really were. It would have been 
a good one on him. We often admitted as much to 
one another. 
It was off this pier that I caught my first fish, I think, 
because my earliest recollection of baiting a hook 
carries me back to this particular spot. You mi ght 
care to hear about it, and why I remember it. I could 
not manage the slippery angleworm, and in my im- 
patience I absent-mindedly did as I should have done 
had I been threading a needle. I wet the thread. That 
moment will remain fresh in my memory so long as 
memory shall endure. We learned to swim at the pier, 
aided and encouraged by its protecting presence. In- 
deed all of our adventures in the aquatic world centered 
around the place. 
There were times when you could lie flat down on 
your stomach at the end of the pier, and gaze so far 
down into the water that you . knew you were getting 
your first glimpse of China. For a long time I secretly 
wondered why the pond did not fall through and drown 
China. 
It would take volumes and many tomes to contain a 
full chronicle of all the deeds performed beneath the 
shade of this big willow. Like the great oaks im- 
mortalized in history, this big willow will always hold 
its place undisturbed in the memories of some of us 
who fought, bled and all but died beneath its spreading 
branches. 
There were other parts of the pond that had their 
points of interest, like the deep hole, where we feared 
to go in swimming, and the railroad bridge which we 
were ordered to shun under penaltv of chastisement most 
dire by the Powers. The deep hole possessed terrors 
of its own- that made any further warnings on the part 
of the Powers surperfluous. That part of the pond, 
where the railway track and embankment lay, had no 
attraction for us, save that it was forbidden ground, 
therefore not to be entirely ignored. Above the bridge 
was what we called the Upper Pond, where the inlet 
entered, after meandering through some miles of pasture 
and meadow land. 
Such was the pond. It rqay have been a mile long, or 
twenty. We knew not, neither did we care. To us it 
•was a body of water of ever- varying dimensions; some- 
, times a mere lake, at others a measureless ocean. As 
much of it was ours as we cared to claim, and there was 
always enough to go around. 
Of course we had a boat, or the use of one which was 
the same thing. It was a plain, home-made, flat-bot- 
tomed affair, not much to boast of in the way of ap- 
pearances, but altogether sufficient for our needs and 
requirements. Some inventive genius had persuaded 
the owner of the boat that he could attach a labor- 
saving device — his own invention — to the stern in the 
form of a propeller, whereby much comfort would ac- 
crue to the owner, and incidentally, I suppose, much 
glory to the inventor. 
The latter devoted himself to his task for weeks. I 
have a dim recollection- of how we watched him at his 
labors with feelings akin to awe. He bored two holes 
in the stern below the waterline for some mysterious 
reason not comprehended by us at the time, nor, as I 
have since come to believe, clearly understood by him- 
self, unless he had a grudge against the owner. After 
boring the holes, and doing some things to the inside 
of the boat that he ought not to have done, the in- 
ventor relapsed into his former normal state of obscur- 
. ity from which he never again emerged, except once 
when he gave us a mean dog— but that has nothing to 
do with the boat. 
The holes w^re a great success. They defied all our 
efforts at corking and caulking, consequently we gen- 
erally had a plentiful supply of water in the boat, which, 
however, was not a matter of very great inconvenience 
to a boy. 
That old boat figured in many of our adventures by 
sea, and by its aid we learned many important things 
We were not supposed to use it save under the pro- 
tecting auspices of one of the Powers; but whenever 
the Powers slumbered in a false security begotten of 
our temporary innocent doings, we had a way of 
capturing the ship and escaping with our prize, all un- 
beknown to our unwatchful enemy. Once safely under 
way, like gallant freebooters of yore, we could steer 
our course wherever there seemed to be a chance of 
seizing upon richly laden merchantman; or if in a 
dangerous, reckless mood we would ravage the coast. 
There was the clan of McLaughlin, headed by the 
peg-legged Chief Paddy, ably seconded by that old 
lermagent he called his wife; Chief Paddy, who- looked 
upon the bottle when it was full, and never ceased gaz-. 
ing until naught but an odor remained. His wife was 
a witch, and we knew it. She had two large bumps on 
her head which her scant hoary locks failed to conceal. 
Whether these bumps were due to nature or to an 
ebullition of spirits begotten in Chief Paddy’s over- 
heated brain we never knew. We leaned to the latter 
theory. 
The lands of the McLaughlin’s bordered on the coast, 
and once we had scaled the precipitous heights, against 
which “the loud-sounding sea” thundered and roared, 
their vast domain with its acres upon acres of “peraties 
an’ cabbages” lay spread out before us at our mercy, 
unless the old lady McLaughlin discovered us from her 
watch tower, in which event we stayed not on the 
order of our going, for we greatly feared the bane of 
her evil eye. 
Further up the coast was the Murphy crew, with our 
mortal enemy, Timothy, at the head of it. We called 
him— what was it we called him? I remember now. 
Timothy Ticklebreeches. That was it, all honor to him 
who invented the cognomen! How often did we hurl 
the hated sobriquet in his teeth from the safe shelter 
of our own back yard. I feared him with a great and 
wholesome fear, accentuated by a keen sense of guilt. 
Well do I remember the time I fell into his hands. 
I was fishing in the deep hole, all intent upon the ' 
business in hand. Suddenly I heard a heavy step. I 
looked up and there he was before me, the much- 
dreaded 'Ticklebreeches. Why I did not die of fright 
right then and there I know not. He seized me by the 
scruff of the neck and my posterior extremities, and 
swinging me over the pool, told me, with an oath, that 
he was going to drown me. He did not, of course, but 
the effect was the same. . That was a harrowing ex- 
perience. 
Yes, Timothy Ticklebreeches was a powerful man, 
one much to be feared, and bitter was the feud be- 
tween us. But his pig pen was near the high water 
line, and it was rare sport to bombard this same pig 
pen from the lofty poop deck of our noble ship, and 
hear the pigs squeal and run about; and then when the 
Lady Murphy came screeching to the rescue with her 
long, bony arms -waving in the air and her sunbonnet 
streaming out behind (we were almost certain that she 
had been born with the sunbonnet on), with a loud 
defiant chorus of “Old Timothy Ticklebreeches,” to 
bring the ship around to the breeze, and continue on 
our devastating way. 
We were monarchs of the high sea, and little did 
the Powers suspect that the innocent-looking craft 
which they called a rowboat, was, in reality, the dreaded 
“Black Avenger of the Spanish Main.” 
“iVtother, may I go out to swim?” 
“Yes, my darling daughter; 
Hang your clothes on a hickory limb, 
But don’t go near the water.” 
That is one of the first poems I ever learned, outside 
of Mother Goose. It is always associated in my mind 
with a long, tough, pliable switch or a thin-soled, 
equally pliable slipper and great bodily pain, fleeting, it 
is true, but none the less poignant while it lasted. 
Paradoxical as the poem may seem to be, it is no more 
so than the commands of some of the Powers, “You 
must not go in swimming until you have learned to 
swim,” said they. 
The part that always bothered me about the poem 
was the “darling daughter.” In my day daughters did 
not indulge in the manly sports to any great extent. 
However, as it is the only swimming poem I ever knew, 
it will have to stand for an introduction. 
The school where we acquired “much wuthless in- 
formation,” and some that was not so worthless, stood 
on the shores of the pond. The playground ran down 
to the water’s edge, and was divided therefrom by a 
tall board fence. It was a, thoughtless, unkind act for 
the founders of the- school to have selected such a loca- 
tion for a temple of learning; unkind thus to thrust 
temptation in the thorny path of erring youth. 
You remember, as well as I do, that if you held up 
two fingers on the sly, it meant, “Let’s go in swimming.” 
Imagine yourself back there in that schoolroom. It is 
a warm June day. The nerve-racking silence of the 
room is broken by a hundred tempting sounds that 
drift through the open window from the outside world, 
calling you, -with insistent voices, to come out and 
play. There is the rat-tat-tat and clear, challenging 
cry of the red-headed woodpecker. You know where 
his nest is; the trouble is you can’t get at it. And 
then comes the chirp of a robin or the soft liquid notes 
of a bluebird, and many other calls that you are familiar 
with. In the midst of it all a delicious sound of barking 
and snarling and yelping suddenly greets your ears, and 
you know that a dog fight is on somewhere in the 
neighborhood, and you curse fate for chaining you here 
at a stupid desk. 
After the dog fight has subsided, perhaps a lazy 
bumble bee will fly in at the window, and having 
created a mild sensation by buzzing about the room, 
go whizzing out through another window. You groan- 
inwardly, and wish that you were the woodpecker, or 
the robin, or tbg bnmble bee or even the dog th^t 
