172 
FOREST AND STREAM 
April, 1920 
SIMPLE SIMON GOES A- FISHING 
IN WHICH THE AUTHOR FEELS A SENSE OF DEEP SYMPATHY AND 
COMPANIONSHIP FOR THE IDIOTIC ANGLER OF OUR CHILDHOOD DAYS 
T has long been recognized by profound 
students of our literature that there is 
something cosmic and elemental in our 
heritage from that eminent authoress, 
Mother Goose. The creations of her facile 
quill, endowed with an amazing vitality, 
people our world today. Who does not 
number among his acquaintance a re- 
incarnation of that well-known old lady 
who lived in a shoe, she of the populous 
progeny and attendant problems? What 
day passes on which our public prints do 
not chronicle the fall of some proud poli- 
tical Humpty Dumpty or the triumph of 
an astute Jack Horner who has skilfully 
cornered the plum market? The types 
are legion and repetitive. We are they 
and they are we. 
It is with this thought covering, in its 
charitable blanket-policy, a multitude of 
foibles that I venture to ally myself with 
the gentleman of my title who has been 
held up to the ridicule of the ages for 
having ventured to go a-fishing in his 
mother’s pail; and for whales forsooth.- 
If I seem to find a sense of deep sympathy 
and companionship for this ancient and 
idiotic angler it is with the comforting 
assurance that I am not alone. I do not 
flatter myself as I did in my twenties — 
that my ego is entirely special and 
unique. Scattered over this broad land 
of ours must be many others who, like 
Simon and me, have gone a-fishing with 
innocence for bait, to whom the story of 
Elihu may be frankly and fearlessly told. 
Elihu weighed when caught exactly 
four and three-quarter pounds, measured 
on a fascinating pocket-scale. He would 
tip the beam at nearly twice that now, 
being stuffed with plaster-of-Paris, a 
fragment of which, protruding from his 
undershot jaw, gives him the appearance 
of a stout, elderly gentleman who is 
foaming at the mouth. His spots, too, 
are quite faded and his varnish needs at- 
tention. I must really have him done 
over for, dingy though he is, Elihu is my 
one ewe-trout, my only link with the 
great tribe of anglers who so easily run 
away with a conversation and leave a 
mere scribbler hopelessly out of it. As 
long as I have Elihu the disciples of 
Izaak Walton must call me brother. 
Is there any condition more isolated 
than that of the uninitiated among a 
group of fishermen? During a fairly 
active career I have endeavored to mas- 
ter at least the language of our various 
social tribes, with, I may say, moderate 
success. But for years I was mute and 
inglorious when the lore of the piscator 
was introduced. My life ran in other 
channels. To me the land of the sky- 
blue waters was a vague region covered 
with Christmas trees, bounded entirely 
by the covers of the National Geograph- 
ic Magazine. 
And then came the great Invitation. 
Into each life, I suppose, one or two 
such invitations must fall, invitations 
By GEORGE S. CHAPPELL 
The Big One 
to go to Cuba or California, or up the 
Amazon, invitations which assume the 
entire non-existence of such incum- 
brances as wife, family and business. 
But this time, 0 delirious madness! the 
thing did seem possible. It was for two 
weeks only, a short dash to the Cana- 
dian woods, fishing, camping, and the 
rest of it, — with all serious equipment, 
tents, canoes, and so on supplied by a 
lavish host. 
“O, Simon!” said my most cherished 
incumbrance, “I do think you ought to 
go!” 
And Simon made it unanimous. 
Little thought Elihu in the frisky 
freedom of his icy pool, that our family 
pact wrote his doom. 
A FTER a dream-like interim of an- 
ticipation there arrived by post, a 
list of the small necessaries with 
which I should supply myself. How I 
gloated over the heavy socks, woolen 
underwear and flannel shirts, checking 
the items I had or could borrow or 
should buy — pausing at the formidable 
“hunting-suit” called for in the specifi- 
cations. A hunting-suit? Who had one 
that was about my size? And then, 
suddenly, I thought of the old, green- 
and-yellow. The very thing! Faithful 
old green-and-yellow ! Carped at and 
criticized, packed and unpacked, worn 
rarely and never without protest, vivid, 
tough, eternal! What man has not some 
such skeleton in his closet? 
A hasty line to Mrs. Simon at the sea- 
shore brought an evasive reply. 
“I think I gave it to Samuel last 
spring. If not, it is in the black leather 
trunk, the one nearest the door. Don’t 
touch the others.” 
It was a warm September afternoon 
when I mounted to the attic. The black 
leather trunk, — the one nearest the door, 
— seemed at first glance to be paved 
solid with newspapers. Why a woman 
will wrap every minute object in a 
separate winding-sheet I do not venture 
to say, but I can confidently assert that 
it is a wretched filing-system. 
Fumbling at promising bundles, I un- 
earthed coats of assorted sizes. Never 
did I feel so rich in coats, my coats, my 
wife’s coats, children’s coats, coats of 
every size and description. 
“Aha!” I thought, malevolently, “I 
shall be there with the ready reply when 
the question of winter coats for the lit- 
tle-ones is brought up.” 
“Look in the black leather trunk,” I 
shall say, “the one nearest the door.” 
Submerged in coats, inhaling moth- 
balls, dripping perspiration, I worked 
my way through an eight inch stratum 
of fur-tippets, muffs and caps. The 
floor in my immediate vicinity was 
strewn with newspapers among which 
my eye caught reminiscent headlines, 
“Bulgaria Quits War!” and so on. But 
I didn’t quit. No, indeed. Boring to 
the depths I at last dragged out a bulky 
parcel inscribed with my initials. 
“Eureka!” I cried, bearing it to the 
window. 
It was my frock coat of the vintage 
of 1900. 
Why — why, in the name of all the 
gods of the underworld had not this 
voluminous, mortuary and utterly extinct 
garment been given ages ago to some de- 
serving undertaker or Liberian diplomat 
or rural parson ! But no ! There it was, 
carefully embalmed, while of the coveted 
green-and-yellow, not a trace. 
I am ashamed to say what I did to the 
other trunks. I did not touch them. I 
ravished them. I disemboweled and dese- 
crated them. I shook out small parcels 
which could not possibly have contained 
the green-and-yellow; — dolls, comfort- 
ers, tea-sets, strange, meaningless bits of 
cloth, — “pieces” I believe they are tech- 
nically called,- — all lay in confusion about 
me. In final despair I wrenched forth a 
perfectly good business-suit, my second- 
best, mentally catalogued as “Suit B,”^ 
one which I thought might easily do for 
the office. It would certainly do for the 
woods. 
And then I repacked the trunks which 
nearly closed. 
T HERE is a thrill even now in every 
detail of that trip, the taxi, the 
train, the club, the canoes, all the 
minutiae which one is allowed to inflict 
