THE LOAFER IN THE STREET.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 1870, 20 February 1880, Page 3

THE LOAFER IN THE STREET.

The trout is an animal which has attracted no ordinary amount of attention in this country. He resembles the leopard in having spots, but unlike the leopard the trout can change his spots. The trout, like the jocund sparrow, the wily hare, the gorgeous pheasant, and others, owes his introduction to the Acclimatisation Society. Having been to some trouble to learn the ways of the trout, I can truthfully say, without hesitation, that ho is thoroughly harmless. The honest farmer does not approve of the sparrow, that bird being not nearly so insectivorous as he was cracked up to be, while the pheasant and the hare are not high in the good graces of gardeners. The trout is different. He a fords employment to some and recreation t many. When I think of the number of men who increase their respective salaries by a bit of quiet poaching, I am pleased to belong to a community that affords its citizens such a recuperative amusement. When I watch patient fishermen with enormous creels slung round them, night after night, threshing the surface of the placid Avon, and returning night after night with those enormous creels as empty as when they started, I feel that faith is still implanted in some human breasts. There is a lot of credulity required about sport of all kinds to make it a solid success, and I have come to the conclusion that the less you analyse things the more gracious is your estate. Thus, if a man shows you an eighteen pound trout and tells you he caught it with a fly, never dream of doubting him. If your friend gives you a fresh pheasant in the month of J uly, and tells you it was killed the last day of the season, eat it and be thankful. Act similarly with a hare that you are told met with an untimely end against a wire fence. Some day I hope to write you a little treatise on the pheasant, also one on the hare, but at present I want to give you a trout fishing experience, from which perhaps even some of your oldest Piscatorial Perusers may learn something. When you go sporting always go with the best man you can select in his own particular line. This is what I did. My mate is a fisherman of many years’ standing, and when he said to me—

“ Give me mine angle. We’ll to Oust River ; there we will betray Tauny • finned fishes ; our bended hooks piercing their slimy jaws,” I said in my simple style, “ I’m there, William.” Thus it was that the fiery, untamed, historical steeds of Mr Jannaway drew us to the Papanui station in time for the morning train to the Oust. At Kaiapoi we were joined by another disciple of the veteran, Ike Walton (no connection, so far as I am aware, of R. W.), and we talked trout. The new arrival is like my friend William, an enthusiast on the fly, and was one of the original introducers of the speckled fish into the Northern streams. A mysterious conference takes place between this sportsman and William, during which he presents the latter with three moderate-sized black beetles, better known, I believe, as “clocks.” These William hands to me for safe keeping, as also a diminutive hook. I place them clocks in my handkerchief and the hook in my pocket, and we arrive at Rangiora. At this city, hearing that we are going to a land where no drink is, I make a hurried trip to the nearest hostelrie to purchase a stimulantic phial for use during the day. On my return I become aware of the fact that one of the “ clocks ” has got loose from the handkerchief and has, with the instinct which characterises his race, installed himself inside my—may I say “pants.” As the “clock” is of much value on the hook, and decidedly uncomfortable where he is, I feel inclined to capture him right eff, but am deterred from direct operations by the presence of an old lady in the carriage. I try by insiduous shifts of position to hunt the clock down to my boot, but that astute animal withdraws slowly to the centre of my back, where he remains. For the remainder of the journey I have to sit in a constrained position, for fear of squashing him. “ He prayeth beet who loveth best All things both great and small ” It’s true. But I could not lose that beetle. By and bye we arrive at ■ ■ and, shouldering our paraphernalia, walk a mile and a half across the tussocks to the Oust. We halt on the bridge, adjust our tackle, and then Mr B, taking one side of the stream and William and I the other, we start business. The stream being closely lined with heavy flax, we soon lose sight of our companion, and I take an early opportunity of capturing the “clock,” which for better security we deposit in a box in company with about a dozen wood beetles. The attraction we offer to the trout is one of the “ clocks,” the day being considered by William unfavorable to artificial fly fishing. In fact, the day does not seem favorable for fishing of any kind, for the trout are not rising, and we travel a long while without any excitement. The Oust river is admirably adapted for trout. 11 It chatters over stony ways In little sharps and trebles, It bubbles into eddying bays. It babbles on the pebbles ; It winds about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, Who in pluck is rather failing.” At least they are on this occasion, and though the day is charming, and it’s pleasant to be among the wild forget-me-nots, thyme, and clover, to hear the humming of the bees and the ohaunt of the lark, still we want fish, and patience being for once rewarded, we eventually hook one. There leapt a trout. In lazy mood I watched the little circles die ; They passed into the level flood, And then the beetle caught his eye. A pretty little bit of play, and he enters the landing net—a nice fish of nearly two pounds, and we march on. You should always be careful how you carry loose hooks; they seem to like exploring. The one I had put in my pocket turned up about this period in quite a different direction, so to speak. I wish to put this little accident as delicately as possible, and only mention the circumstance as a caution to other anglers. The hook had got fixed—not in my coat, nor in my waistcoat, but in the other garment which usually makes up a man’s suit. It was also fast to me. Thanks to William and his knife, a separation was effected. I sat uneasily for some days afterwards, but this is only parenthetical, as you may say. After the slight delay caused by this little episode, we proceed. N.B.—There are drawbacks even to trout fishing. After scrambling through several gorse hedges, and under the circumstances it was a performance requiring some delicacy on my part, we came to a still pool at the corner or a water race. It was not a trouty looking pool by any means, but William made a couple of casts with a master’s hand, skimming the surface with my newly-recovered “ clock,” A rush through the water, a whirr of the reel, and William is fast to a “ right un.” How he (the fish I mean) did run round that pool, and how did I hang around with the landing net! How did I make up my mind to jump into the pool and fight the leviathan in his own element if necessary, and how did William sneer at me for my excitement. Eventually the fish has enough of it, and in spite of the most strenuous and game efforts we grass him at last. And he adds at least five and a half pounds to the weight of the creel, which I may state is carried by yours truly. After a pretty well-earned lunch we fish on with not the best success. Oust fishing is not the easiest in the world. It would make Job himself cuss in a refined style. As you walk along, the hook catches in rushes which seem to have been created for that especial purpose. You strike a pool apparently adapted for trout alone, and in five casts, such is the nature of the position, the wind drives the hook into the flax. You lose your bait, you lose your chance ; you lose your temper, and you think naturally like the minor prophet Jonah, whose reputation by the way is based mainly on a fish experience—that you do well to be angry, You stumble in holes,

you prick yourselyes with thistles, but .you forget your troubles, as we did when you find yourself again fast to another fish. Our next was speaking in a symmetrical point of view, the capture of the day. A nice deep even trout of two pounds and a half, and “ such a mover,” as racing men would say. We now try further up the river, and after losing a very nice fish, who gulps nearly our last beetle and departs on other important business, we try a pool where the back water from an eddying turn forms a dark quiet pool under a heavy flax bush. The pool held its tenant, and the tenant liked wood beetles. He will never have another opportunity of cultivating his taste in this respect, for after a brief but gallant fight I had the opportunity of giving my opinion that his weight was as nearly three pounds as possible. It was now time to start for the station, so, packing up our furniture, we strode across the tussocks once more in time to catch the afternoon train to town. Our companion of the morning, who joined up at the station, was, I was glad to learn, also successful. He had a nice creel of fish, and had lost, he told us, the biggest trout he had ever hooked, from not having anyone to help him. I fancy anyone fishing on the Oust, where heavy fish predominate, would do well to have an assistant to work the landing net and carry the creel, and, parenthetically speaking—Lord help the assistant. If sport is good and the basket gets weighty he will be reminded of Issachar, who, if I remember rightly, is represented as an ass crouching between two burdens. Still you know it’s better a long way than hanging about town bars waiting on the off chance, as I have done for years, for a few glasses of beer, and a grilled trout is not a bad thing for dinner as times go. No ; the trout is a good worthy fish. Catching him is good sport, and if the few lines I have written will induce others to go and see what the game is like I shall not have scrawled in vain. But, gentle reader, it is like other games ; it wants learning. I cannot close this without a word of thanks to my friend and cicerone William, to whose invitation I am indebted to this trip, and who during the expedition explained to me a number of matters in connection with piscatorial pursuits which I never knew before, and which I’m not altogether sure that I thoroughly understand now.