Central High School - Cog N Pen Yearbook (Newark, NJ)

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E СТК FC IC E That Sunday Fish By PauL В. HENERLAU. X OWN from the mountains, and on M through the beautiful wooded valleys of the foothills to the sea, flows the little River of Dreams. Long, long years ago, before the foot of the white man ever profaned its mossy banks, the Indians gave it its musical name; but I am not going to tell you what that is, for fear you may journey there use- lessly. For you may not fish upon the River of Dreams now; it is no longer part of nature’s wilder- ness. From its source to its mouth, and for a space of a mile from each shore, it belongs to Standard Copper, Amalgamated Oil, Consolidated Medicines and United Chewing Gum. It has become a part of their system, their playground, and the public is not allowed to get in, either on the ground floor or on any other floor. Davis Pherry, the man who, many years ago, first gave to mankind the priceless boon of Pherry’s Light- ning Pain-Killer, and William Emery, who cut down and sold, at a very fair profit, half the standing pine on the lower peninsula, were the first of the system to discover the beauties of the River of Dreams. First and foremost of those beauties were the speckled ones, for, as a matter of fact, the beauties of nature did not appeal to them with half the force of their love for fishing; and when they found that the little river fairly swarmed with trout and salmon. they made haste to acquire by purchase and other means, the river from its source to its mouth and all the fish in the river, and the forest for a mile on either side, and the guides who lived upon its banks, and the atmosphere above the river as high as it might extend. Then they let in a few of their friends on the ground floor, shut the door and nailed it shut, and the River of Dreams was erased from the map of the government domain. Strange fishermen they, the members of this little club. Expert fly-casters every one of them, with an excellent knowledge of the likely haunts of the trout or salmon, and the ability to drop a fly within a few inches of a chosen spot, and to hook and land the fish after the strike was made; yet not one among them could handle a canoe, either with a pole or with a paddle. They had never learned because they had never had to; they had always been able to hire soneone to do it for them. The guides, whom they had acquired along with the river and forest and atmosphere, were mostly French-Canadian half-breeds and quarter-breeds, and with them they had acquired the right to six days of their labor; but when they endeavored to acquire the seventh day's labor, also, they found, much to their surprise, that it was the one thing that they did not have money enough to buy. With all their mil- lions of money, their influence and their pull, they could not get those simple woodsfolk to work on Sunday. They never had labored on the Sabbath, neither had their fathers, nor grandfathers. It had never been done, and they would not do it now. Hence it became a custom among the fishermen of the system to rest upon the seventh day, and, as time went on, they gradually came to believe that the universal rule against Sunday fishing was of their own making. They even incorporated it among their by- laws and took great pride in its existence and enforce- ment, and to give it a greater moral effect they even tacked on a penalty of a hundred dollars fine for anyone caught violating it. One Sunday morning Emery arose with the lark, or some other early rising bird, and wandered down to the shore of the great pool. He was in a very wicked frame of mind. The run of salmon was a week overdue, and the trout had been wary and shy

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Pherry dropped his rod and ran for the boat. A forty-pound saimon on a six-ounce trout rod! Ап el.phant on а clothes-line! Аз he reached the boat he paused. ‘lhe voice of Emery smote in tones of thunder on his ear. You frozen idiot! Get into this boat and push her ой or 111 lose this fish—and kill you!” But—but I can't pole a сапое!”” sputtered Pherry as he tumbled over the stern and picked up the pole. “You Il pole this one all right, or Г throw you overboard, said Emery grimly. “Easy now; keep your head. I've only got fifty yards of trout line left on this reel, the rest is a lot of old rotten little perch line I put on for a filler. If I can keep him on the trout line I may land him, but if he ever gets to sawing on that perch line through the tip, he's a goner. Но the canoe where she is— steady now. Гуе only got ten feet of line in, and then I'll be able to do business with him.” Slowly and carefully, inch by inch, Emery coaxed the great fish toward the boat, his eyes glued on the little knot where the line was spliced. It came to the tip of the rod, caught an instant—an eternity—and slipped through. Рһеггу, in the stern, breathed a prayer of thanksgiving. Slowly the knot traveled down the length of the rod toward the reel—and safety. Now, you see the advantage of trumpet guides,” said Emery triumphantly. “Where would you be with your ring guides and that knot? I tell you there’s nothing like” Look out!” shrieked Pherry in agony. But Emery was looking out. The big fish had made a rush, and he had let it go. It was the only thing to do, and as it was headed up stream and toward the sheer granite wall on the upper side of the pool, he knew he had line enough to let it have its run. Check him! Check Мт!” screamed Pherry т a spasm of fear, as the reel fairly screamed in its efforts to keep up with the fast-running line. Check nothing! You pay attention to your end of the boat. I’m handling this fish. Push her along now, I want to get back some of that line I lost!” When the great fish found his rush obstructed by the smooth wall of rock he very promptly went to the bottom and sulked. Emery was very glad to have him do this, for it gave him a chance to get back some of his lost line. Clumsily and laboriously, with many exertions, Pherry poled the canoe slowly toward the sulking salmon, while Emery carefully reeled in the frail line until the knot that marked the danger line once more disappeared under the glistened sur- face of the trout line. Raise him! Raise him! whispered Pherry, as he stopped exhausted at his work. You attend to your own business, growled Emery. “Pole me up closer, I want all the line I 12 can get on my reel. Pole me over to the right—to the right, I said, you idiot! Oh, you absolute im- becile! Not that way, he'll—now you have done it!” Pherry had done his best to get the canoe placed right, but had only succeeded in getting the boat di- rectly over the fish, which promptly made another rush, this time down stream, and carrying the line under the canoe. Emery, by a quick turn of the rod switched the line under the bottom of the canoe just an instant before it tightened. A fraction of a second later and it would have been too late. Check him! Check him! wailed the pain- killer, struggling manfully to send the canoe after the flying fish; for when a forty-pound salmon starts down stream it’s policy to follow him without delay. Get after him! Get after ыт!” bellowed Emery. Get a hustle on yourself, you inanimate jelly-fish! What do you think I have on this reel—a wire hawser? How do you think I’m going to check a whale with a cotton thread? Push her along, you driveling idiot; you're not mixing pills with that pole, you're supposed to be pushing a canoe!” Pherry was beginning to lose his strength as his breath began to give ош. He was doing the best he could, but he felt sure that the man with the rod was making a mess of his end of the business. бо he panted back: Do you want him to get all your line? Put on your drag and check him down, you chump, or you'll —there, thank your lucky stars, he's turned! Reel in! Reel in, you asinine imbecile! | He's coming straight at you! Now's your chance to get him on your good line again!” But Emery was making his multiplier fairly hum in his frantic efforts to recover his line. In fact, so intent was he on his task that he forgot all about the little knot until reminded of it by a viicious snub as the knot struck the agate tip, Pherry wailed dolor- ously : Now you have done it, you unbaked lobster! You've broken a strand of that department-store fish line! Now you never will land Ыт!” It was only too true. The little three-ply twisted perch line had parted a strand and the frayed end was journeying slowly and laboriously, with many twistings and turnings, toward the reel, as Emery, with face set and muscles tense with excitement, slowly and carefully reeled in. At last the danger line was passed, he rapidly recovered his slack line, and once more got the fell of his quarry. Both men heaved а sigh of relief. And now the fish began a series of short but vicious rushes, which Emery checked very cleverly before the frayed portion of the line had a chance to get off the reel. Pherry stood in the stern, pole in hand, shouting more or less intelligent directions, while the canoe, unnoticed by both men, drifted slowly toward the fast water at the outlet of the pool. The