IN THE EARLY SUMMER there were wild strawberries to be
picked. Raspberries, blackberries, blueberries and finally huckleberries
followed in turn. Berry picking on the mountainsides was work and it was
not always easy to find boys willing to undergo the hardships except the
boys from the poor families who needed the money which could be realized
from selling the fruit from door to door. Some of these boys were
interesting companions, and spurred on by their mothers they could be
depended upon to be on hand at an early hour and thus insure a good day's
pick. Even in the long summer days, they would call for me before daylight
and we would be well up the mountain when the early morning train from
Rutland began to creep along the Otter Creek valley far below.
It was always a matter of wonder to us to observe how
long it took the whistle of the train to reach our ears after our eyes had
discerned the faint puffs of smoke making the announcement of the fact
that the sound was on its way.
Fog generally followed the course of the creek; we had
not been conscious of its presence while we were in it but viewed from
high up the mountain it was clearly defined.
No part of the day is so entrancing as early morning;
so full of hope and expectation. If one would see the pageantry of sky and
cloud, let him go to the mountains at daybreak and breathe in the charm of
it to the accompaniment of the songs of awakening birds and the fragrance
of the wild rose.
Each berrypicker was provided with both pail and cup,
the latter remaining buttoned on the suspender until the picking got under
way. When the accumulation of berries in the pail justified the change,
the pail was placed in the shade of a convenient growth of ferns and the
berries were then picked into the cup and the contents emptied into the
pail at convenient intervals.
The strawberries grew mostly in the foothills where the
soil was slightly sandy. They were much smaller than garden strawberries
and much sweeter. It required perseverance to pick even one quart of field
strawberries but they were appreciated because of their scarcity.
Raspberries and blackberries followed the strawberries
as the season advanced and they, in turn, were followed by the low-bush
blueberries which grew in abundance on Green Hill, where the sour, rocky
soil produced other things sparingly. Somehow the roots of low-bush
blueberries, along with wintergreen and ferns thrived on the sterile soil
of Green Hill, and other vegetation begrudged them not their sole
occupancy. In return for such privileges as it enjoyed, the soil on Green
Hill produced blueberries which were really blue and wonderfully sweet.
Blueberries have now been domesticated but not so successfully, it seems
to me, as the strawberries and the raspberries; some of the sweetness has
been lost in the effort to increase the size.
The huckleberries were the last in the march of the
seasons. They were larger and darker in color than the blueberries and
lacked some of their flavor but they grew more abundantly and the bushes
being high they were more easily picked. One can strip high-bush
huckleberries directly in the pail and a good picker can fill a
water-pail, holding ten to twelve quarts, in the course of a day. They
also are content with small favors so far as soil is concerned; in fact
they are even less demanding in their requirements than the blueberries.
They grow among huge boulders at the bottom of White Rocks. No berrybushes
are so prodigal in their giving and so modest in their demands as the
huckleberries of the Vermont mountains.
Grandmother used to smile sweetly when I brought home
my day's pick of huckleberries but I must admit that I was not entirely
free from self-interest; I had grandmother's luscious pies in mind. While
neither of my grandparents asked me to go berrying or even suggested it,
grandmother never failed to express a genuine pleasure when her tired,
sunburned, barefooted grandson made his appearance with a pailful of
cleanly picked berries fresh from the mountainside.
When I was a child, father, yielding to my
importunities, took me trout fishing one day, with the result that the
virus got into my blood. From that day on, every mountain brook has had
its fascination for me. Every likely pool beneath rock, log, or
overhanging bank has been a challenge and I have yet to see a more
thrilling sight than that of trembling, bending rod and glistening trout
as it emerges from its cold, dark lair, dances aloft for a moment in the
sunlight and then falls upon rock or bank my captive.
I have yet to see any more beautiful living creature
than a brook trout. Note the perfect symmetry of outline and the delicacy
and variety of its colors. Its mottled back varies in accordance with the
color of the bottom of the stream and the water in which he has made his
home; the darker his surroundings, the darker he is and therefore less
easily seen by his enemies. Trout-fishing boys and men admire the rich red
of the belly fins, but far exceeding all in beauty is the delicate
coloration of the flanks of the creature with its crimson spots encircled
with rings of azure blue. No artist, painting on Dresden china, could
equal the shading of the multicolored sides of this creature of the cold
sparkling streams of the New England mountains.
Why should men and boys find such joy in the capture
and killing of so beautiful a creature as a brook trout? Our congenital
instinct, I imagine; something we may get over in time. Not so very long
ago, beautiful song birds were slaughtered for their flesh and their
feathers. We have outlived that savagery and now think of such creatures
as our best friends, delightful to listen to and to behold.
Perhaps our beautiful friends of the mountain brooks
will come into their own some day; there are signs of it already. We don't
often hear men speak of the number of brook trout they have "killed" in a
day; modern fishermen no longer kill for the sole purpose of killing. It
is not good ethics among sportsmen of this day to take from a stream more
fish than they have use for.
Calling at the public library one day to ask for books
on fishing, the librarian surprised me by asking, "which do you want,
philosophical or practical?" The question amused me so that at first I
laughed outright but eventually when I had thought the matter through, I
answered, "I expect the book I am looking for is what you would designate
as philosophical."
I had figured it out right. The practical fisherman is
one who is interested primarily in "the kill." To the philosophical
fisherman, the catch is only a part of the story, a very small part
likely. He is interested in the great outdoors; he places first the
opportunity to commune with nature and to partake of its healing power. He
can follow a stream or sit in a boat as the case may be without the
slightest sense of loneliness; he is the philosophical fisherman. Isaac
Walton was one. He taught the religion of the outdoors and did more to
popularize fishing than any other man in history. What delightful vistas
of thought he opened up to the delectation of his own generation and
generations yet to come. Professor Henry Drummond was a philosophical
fisherman. Oh yes, in a humble way, that's the kind of fisherman I have
been.
The brook trout are not only the most beautiful of
creatures, they are the most shy and intelligent of fish. Men love to
match wits with them and a sophisticated brook trout wins against all
except the most experienced.
In the business of outwitting brook trout, long-bearded
Ed Sabin, the tinner, and 'Peg-leg" Pratt, the coffin-maker, knew no
superiors. They were individualists pure and simple and while their
technique varied greatly, the results were the same-they caught the trout.
Ed placed his catch in a creel while "Peg-leg" would cut a crotched stick
from the underbrush, cutting one side close to the crotch and leaving the
other side long enough to accommodate the expected catch when strung
through their gills. "Peg-leg" ordinarily was slow in his movements but
his return from Roaring Brook was always a march of triumph; his head was
held high and his peg leg played a staccato tattoo on the board walks of
the village. As a rejuvenator, trout fishing takes high rank.
As was the case with berrypicking, my fishing
excursions began before the light of day. What mysticism there was in
those early morning hours; all the world was mine. Even grandfather, early
riser though he was, had not thought of stirring. I used to make my way
quietly down the cellar stairs to the swinging shelf, on which I would
generafly find a platter of brook trout, the result of a previous day's
fishing. They had been rolled in corn meal and fried in buffer and even
though they were cold, they constituted a fine breakfast.
Then I would take the chunk of dried beef which always
hung in the cellarway and from it cut several sizeable slices, my only
provision for lunch. I abhorred impediments and early discovered that a
tiny package of dried beef washed down by cold water from the brook,
supplied the necessary nourishment.
I'm a merry mountain brook
Hiding in some shady nook
Babbling, laughing all day long
Running, dancing with a song.
I'm as free as winds that blow
Little care I where I go
Only let me have a run
Splashing, tumbling all in fun.
An obstruction in my path
Simply makes me swirl and laugh
Nothing stops me as I flow
Over rocks to pools below.
Birney C. Batcheller.
Child's Brook was my favorite; its source was a spring
well up in the hills at the foot of White Rocks. The water near the
spring, being protected from the summer sun by huge boulders, trees and
bushes, remained frozen the year round and was locally known as the "ice
bed." Within half a mile of the "ice bed," I could begin fishing the icy
waters of Child's Brook. Creeping through the undergrowth in the wooded
stretches and through the long grass bordering the brook in the
pastureland, I would let my bait float down into promising holes.
Sometimes the results were disappointing; in spite of my efforts to
conceal myself from the vision of the trout, the shy creatures had seen
me. All I had seen was a flash upstream or downstream like a streak of
light, a slight muddying of the water where the belly fins, serving as
feelers, had stirred up the bottom of the stream.
Then again hungry trout would rise to my bait one after
the other, several perhaps from the same hole. I can still feel the thrill
of it; the desperate last second of resistance and then the catch.
It was my custom to fill the capacious pockets of my
jacket with ferns and mint gathered along the brook and to bury each
captured trout in my thus improvised crypt, there to remain until I
arrived home when I would cast the entire conglomeration into a trough of
crystal spring water, and proceed to separate the trout from their
clinging shrouds, preparatory for cleaning, gloating the while at each
prize and recalling the very hole from which it had savagely risen to
strike the bait.
When the sun had risen to a position directly overhead,
I would rest and, in the shade of spreading friendly beech tree, enjoy my
simple luncheon while luxuriating in the view of the valley, the music of
the brook, the aromatic fragrance of the mint, the soft breezes from the
mountains an occasional butterfly of gorgeous colors flitting without
apparent purpose from place to place, honeybees gathering sweet nectar
from the wild flowers of the mountainside, and the rustle of the long
grass bending gracefully in the wind.
What sweeter music than the song of the brook. A friend
of mine, whose photographs in the National Geographic magazine have
brought joy to millions of readers all over the world, told me that once
while traveling in the mountains with the two great naturalists, John
Burroughs and John Muir, he came upon Burroughs lying on his side on the
floor of an old and seldom used bridge. Upon inquiring as to what he was
doing, the grand old man replied, "listening through this knot-hole to the
music of the brook." Some hear sounds to which others are deaf. Few indeed
enjoy to the fullest the senses of sight, hearing, smelling and feeling.
What a privilege the companionship of these two men, who styled
themselves, "the two Johnnies-Johnnie of the birds and Johnnie of the
mountains."
After lunch with knees planted on convenient rocks and
hands on others, I would let myself down and drink from the icy water. The
brook increased in size as it continued its course down the hillside,
through the meadow and into Otter Creek. The trout increased both in size
and sophistication as they entered the broader waters. Neither brook nor
creek was famed for large tout, even half-pounders being exceptions. The
two largest I recall having been taken from the steams in our neighborhood
were two pounders. I saw one of them and greatly envied the fortunate
captor.
I became fairly proficient in the art of angling as
time advanced but never to compare with Mr. Ed Sabin or Mr. 'Peg-leg"
Pratt; they could catch trout in any brook however bad its reputation
might be. No brook was ever fished out to them and they always fished
alone.
I usually finished my sport late in the afternoon and
returned to the village, a tired but happy boy, after my adventure in
solitude. If there were sick folks in the village my catch was shared with
them; grandmother would have the trout crisply cooked and done up in a
snowy napkin and I was never too tired to make deliveries.
Grandmother had her other charities as well and in
those, I was her willing messenger. Many a basket and many a pail of
delicacies I have taken at her behest to the sick and needy. Two aged
sisters, one of them stone blind, both serene in their afflictions, were
regular recipients of grandmother's bounty and they always greeted me with
a smile and sent their messages of love and gratitude to grandmother.
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