280 
FOREST AND STREAM 
June, 1919 
GOING CATTIE FISHING WITH A BOY 
THE SECOND INSTALMENT OF A SERIES OF STORIES DEPICTING THE 
. SIMPLE JOY OF FISHING AS EXEMPLIFIED THROUGH THE EYES OF YOUTH 
By LEONARD HULIT, Associate Editor of FOREST AND STREAM 
T he mail was late one morning at 
the village near which the man 
was boarding and he was awaiting 
its arrival at the store. One of those 
quaint affairs, so general throughout the 
rural districts, with its motley collection 
of merchandise, where could be had 
Liniment to cure lumbago 
Ploughshares, oranges and sago. 
The man was one of a numberless 
throng who, through dint of long hours 
and every day service over ponderous 
ledgers, though not yet of middle life, 
had reached the condition where rest 
and change was imperative. 
His wife and one child had gone to 
spend an interval of time with her peo- 
ple while he had decided to recuperate 
in the region of his youth. 
As in most sections of its kind, but 
few changes had taken place during his 
absence. Some of his old friends had 
passed to the great beyond, while those 
of his own years had become the staid 
residents, working out their destiny 
much as had their predecessors. He was 
reading a sale bill hung up in the store, 
when in breezed his boy acquaintance of 
a few days previous, garbed much the 
same as on the previous day except that 
his battered straw hat was replaced by a 
cap equally disreputable in appearance, 
worn well back on his head, and showing 
off to good advantage the freckles on 
nose and cheeks. 
“Hello,” he said on catching sight of 
the man, “feelin’ better now?”. I ain’t 
been to the ponds nor creek since leavin’ 
you that night, ’ception once just ’fore 
dark. Got some catties an’ one wallopin’ 
eel. It’s cloudy today an’ may rain some. 
If you don’t mind, s’posin’ we go after 
catties long ’bout 2 o’clock? Aunt 
Mary’ll let me go; she gen’ly does when 
the garden work’s done and no errands to 
do. An’ say,” he ran on, scarcely taking 
breath, “you needn’t bother none about 
bait, I’ve got a lot of worms washed and 
mossed; keep 
better that 
way; makes ’em 
tougher. If you 
look the moss 
over good an’ 
pick out the 
dead grass ends 
the worms won’t 
cut, ’nen keep 
’em where it is 
nice and cool.” 
The boy had a 
peculiar method 
of abbreviation 
when speaking 
earnestly. H i s 
“and then” was 
usually cor- 
rupted into ’nen 
and so on 
through an orig- 
inal and ree- 
ular vocabulary. “ ’Ception,” he con- 
tinued, “you might bring ’long a piece of 
beef if it’s good and red. Catties take it 
sometimes better’n worms. Funny, ain’t 
it, how they’ll notionate ’bout eatin’ this 
a way an’ that? Got good hooks?” he 
asked, “they’ve got most all kinds here,” 
So, upon inspection, a selection was 
made which suited the boy’s idea as to 
size. He examined the mark 2-0 on the 
end of the box with a puzzled air. “I 
d’know why they mark ’em that way,” 
he thoughtfully observed. “There’s a 
reason I s’pose. Anyhow, that’s good 
size, but most anything will catch cat- 
ties, but might as well have ’em right. 
An’ say. Mister, what does that mean?” 
His finger followed the word “Kirbed” 
on the blue label of the box. 
The man explained that it meant the 
point was bent or sprung out from a 
straight line with the frame of the hook. 
The explanation was met with the sim- 
ple monosyllabic “oh,” adding, however, 
as to himself; “They’re dandy hooks; 
but too small for pike an’ some too large 
for perch or sunnies.” Here was a hint, 
which was taken good-naturedly by the 
man, and their heads were soon together 
making selection, 4-0 for pike, as the 
boy persisted in calling them, and No. 
12 for smaller fish. 
The man divided his purchase equally 
with the boy, much to the latter’s de- 
light. He scurried away and from some- 
where produced two large bottle corks 
and at once proceeded to place the hooks 
thereon, pressing the points well in. The 
man received a letter from home, the 
boy a newspaper from his aunt. They 
separated at the door, the boy calling 
back from quite a distance: “Meet you 
at the white bridge ’bout 2, meb’e a lit- 
tle sooner,” then went on down the road 
with his carefree swing, the man re 
fleeting that there are Tom Sawyers or 
Huck Finns in every neighborhood await- 
ing another Mark Twain to record them. 
T 
The boy cut a pole in the birch sprouts and attached a crude reel 
' HE youngster was on the bridge at 
the time appointed and, as the man 
approached, was industriously 
hurling bits of rock at a red squirrel in 
an adjacent tree. The squirrel as in- 
dustriously dodging this way and that, 
now up, now down, then out on a limb 
as the rocks struck the trunk with re- 
sounding thwacks; meanwhile keeping 
up the blustering chatter of its nature. 
The boy had not noticed the approach 
of his friend until he heard his step on 
the planks, so intent was he in his pur- 
suit of the squirrel. Then he said, 
“Wish’t I had a gun, them chick-a-rees 
ain’t no use ’cept to chase the big greys 
through the woods and rob every birds 
nest in creation.” 
He, although uncouth of speech to a 
degree, was fast learning the ways of 
the wood folks as well as that of the 
denizens of the waters. The man noticed 
with pleasure that during their many ex- 
cursions no coarse speech escaped the 
boy’s lips, though crude in many ways 
and some of his sayings were uncanny. 
“There goes a flicker,” he observed, as 
they passed by a large ash tree in the 
meadow. I’ll bet she’s got a nest in that 
dead limb out there. See that hole?” 
His eyes took in carefully the trunk of 
the tree which was much too large for 
him to attempt to climb. “High-hold- 
ers we call ’em, but they can’t sing, they 
just squawk.” 
“I didn’t bring no pole with me today 
no more’n you,” chattered on the boy, 
“we’ll go over to the birch sprouts an’ 
cut what’s good an’ limber. Most fun 
in catching catties is to see the pole 
bend, an’ that gives ’em a chance to 
scoot around more; ’tain’t no fun in jest 
hossin’ ’em out. Got a knife? My 
name’s Matt,” he rambled on, “though 
most of folks here call me Mott. Why, 
I don’t know. What can I call you 
b’sides Mister?” The man good-naturedly 
informed 
him his name 
was Woodhull, 
at which the boy 
remained 
tho u gh tfully 
quiet for some 
time as though 
to fix the name 
indelibly in his 
mind. “They’ll 
do,” he remark- 
ed, as he looked 
the two birch 
poles, with their 
white butts and 
red tops, over 
critically, which 
had been select- 
ed and closely 
trimmed. 
“They’re good 
an’ long, so we 
