It was all any poor mortal man, woman, or child, needed in this world to make him or her happy, useful, good.Īt first we scarcely realized this, and wondered greatly at certain things he said, and the tone in which he said them. Incomprehensible as it may seem, to his simple intellect the fisherman's art was a whole system of morality, a guide for every-day life, an education, a gospel. But it is not of these practical teachings I would now speak rather of the lessons of simple faith, of unwearied patience, of self-denial and cheerful endurance, which the old man himself seemed to have learned, strangely enough, from the very sport so often called cruel and murderous. They are older now, and are no mean anglers, I believe but they look back gratefully to those brookside lessons, and acknowledge gladly their obligations to Fishin' Jimmy. For friend he seemed even in that first hour, as he began simply, but so wisely, to teach my boys the art he loved. We fell into talk at once, Ralph and Waldo rushing eagerly into questions about the fish, the bait, the best spots in the stream, advancing their own small theories, and asking advice from their new friend. A simple, homely figure, yet he stands out in memory just as I saw him then, no more to be forgotten than the granite hills, the rushing streams, the cascades of that north country I love so well. He carried a fishing-rod, and had some small trout strung on a forked stick in one hand. The new comer was a spare, wiry man of middle height, with a slight stoop in his shoulders, a thin brown face, and scanty gray hair. Suddenly there was a little plash in the water at the spot where Ralph was fishing, the slender tip of his rod bent, I heard a voice cry out, "Strike him, sonny, strike him!" and an old man came quickly but noiselessly through the bushes, just as Ralph's line flew up into space, with, alas! no shining, spotted trout upon the hook. The boys, as usual, were tempting the trout with false fly or real worm, and I was roaming along the bank, seeking spring flowers, and hunting early butterflies and moths. It was early June, and we were again at Franconia, that peaceful little village among the northern hills. IT WAS on the margin of Pond Brook, just back of Uncle Eben's, that I first saw Fishin' Jimmy.
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