The Uncollected Prose of Pauline Johnson

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A Day's Frog Fishing

On the whole lake there is no more enthusiastic fisherman than my friend Knockabout. In addition to his inordinate love of the sport he possesses the most marvellous luck. When he takes a party for a day's outing with rod and line he proves himself a veritable Mascot. Consequently when he joined us in Muskoka late in August there was great rejoicing in the camp, for although Mrs. Knockabout had selected her guests irrespective of religious, temperance or political convictions, we were thoroughly unanimous in our tastes regarding a good, fresh fish.

Knockabout always laughs derisively when anyone tells him Muskoka has been fished out, and well he may, for during the two seasons he has been our host on lake Rosseau I have never known him to return from a pull across the bay with a troll in hand without either a splendid pickerel or a five pound salmon trout.

Trolling is his forte. He invites some one to take the oars while he curls himself calmly in the stern, and over his countenance there settles the placid business-like expression that a man wears when confident of success. I have always been under the impression that he believes in and demonstrates the theory of mind over matter, for some way or other the troll is rarely out more than ten minutes when Knockabout suddenly sits erect, into his eyes there leaps an expression such as I have seen champion oarsmen wear when their craft shoots between the flags, then there is a rapid twirl of hand over hand until the long line coils like a grey mat at his feet, a swish of sharp, quivering fins in the water, a gleam of silverish white, a final dash, splash, crash, and Knockabout has his prize flopping in the bottom of the boat.

He always smiles while he extracts the hook, but I don't recollect ever hearing him utter a word of triumph. Into the basket goes the fish, and without any comment he drops the troll over the gunwale, permits the line to slide slowly through his fingers, and back comes the aforesaid expression of placid confidence.

But one morning he arose filled with the desire of attempting a new enterprise. The previous night, as he was passing the mouth of Shadow River, his ever alert ear caught the baritone notes of bullfrogs and he instantly decided that they were “foemen worthy of his steel.” At breakfast he mentioned his intention of going frog fishing. Mrs. Knockabout and I eagerly volunteered assistance for she had unquestionably epicurean tastes, and I had never eaten this manna of the ponds, and as novelty always has a great charm for me I immediately craved frog legs, so frog legs I must have.

With the unvarying intuition that characterizes the sportsman, Knockabout sneered at the idea of a bit of red flannel that is generally supposed to be such excellent bait for frogs. I believed in him too religiously to dispute the matter when he declared nothing would do but grasshoppers. So I induced the whole camp to turn out in quest of the agile insects that flip and buzz about the tents where you don't want them, but that elude you like the realization of your life dream when your main desire is to capture them.

Until that morning I never felt the ravages of age. Let him who considers himself most supple and active, strive to pounce on a good fat grasshopper, particularly when the hopper has a premonition his tomb will be within a monster bullfrog. I shudder to recall the awful sprawls over jagged rocks—the terrible sensation of rooting I had when suddenly landed head foremost in a tangle of golden rod and Scotch thistle. Finally I remembered that “all things come to him who waits,” so I sat meekly down and let the miserable, teasing little things skim into my lap and over my shoulders. It was a splendid scheme, the game was won, and in half an hour our host and hostess together with the fishing tackle, a big bottle of scratching, scrawling grasshoppers, and myself, were sailing among the reeds where Shadow River empties into the lake.

Shadow River! There it slept before us, its head pillowed on the gaunt grey bluffs that miles away lift their broken crests between a score of unsailed lakes, its feet bathed by the sleepless waters of isle-sprinkled Rosseau, Shadow River that mirrors with such perfect exactness the wee green fern, the broken branch, the invincible rocks, the kingly firs, just as affinity mirrors the passions of a sister soul, where heavenward pointing balsams lose their tops in a cloudland that drifts through miles of unattainable heights o'er head, of unsearchable depths beneath. Is it a type of the human soul as the Master gave it, like the upper heavenly air, the all enduring mighty hand, and have we defaced it by this sluggish stream of life, into nothing but a shadow that the touch of our own hand will mar—or that watchful guarding will keep in image of the divine? Or is it that the land and sky are as the hereafter, the reflection, artificial, unstable, transient as earth, and yet so exact a counterpart in loveliness that one must dip their finger in the stream to realize it is not the enduring shore, but evanescent shadow?

Lounging quietly in the bow I was fast forgetting the purpose for which we came, when Knockabout told us to “Sh-h-h-h,” though nobody was speaking, and presently a contorted, kicking grasshopper dangled over my shoulder, and hung temptingly before a big, wide mouth that poked itself up among the weeds. The clap-trap cavern opened, the frog plunged, Knockabout gave a smart jerk, and high above our heads swung the fat, heavy “catch”—performing the most wonderful acrobatic feats I ever saw. Mrs. Knockabout protested vehemently when the game twirled round within an inch of her ear, and declined positively to take it off the hook, but she soon grew accustomed to the contortions of these singularly human looking creatures, and in a short time we were both professionals in the sport, rivalling Knockabout in dexterity even of baiting.

One can scarcely imagine the fascination of frog fishing, the search among the wet grasses and rushes for a big green head, the sneaking motion of the boat that is requisite to near the watchful monster as he sits contentedly on a flat lily leaf, or floats with all but his eyes submerged in the sluggish water. Oh, those uncanny eyes! Look where'er you may, it is not long before you spy two exaggerated looking humps set with unblinking red orbs. For many nights my dreams were haunted with myriads of floating eyes. Small wonder that on my second day's sport I had become a dabster at discovering frogs among the marshes. So familiar had I become with the sight of the ugly things, that wherever my gaze rested a pair of lumpy eyes seemed to appear, and it was with a vicious satisfaction that I hooked their owner and dumped him with his fellows into a bag to await the inhuman amputation act.

As the morning waned Mrs. Knockabout grew very courageous, and with admirable bravery would swing aloft an emerald colored monster, and with pity adulterated by wonderment, watch his antics on the mimic trapeze. How long we would have dabbled among the fens is uncertain, had not a ravenous hunger—such as never assails one outside Muskoka—taken possession of us. To go without dinner after one o'clock was inhuman torture, so we pulled across to the camp where Knockabout was very gratified to empty the game bag of thirty splendid pair.

“It is a good catch—a jolly good catch,” he remarked at tea time when a sizzling hot platter containing the broiled dainties was placed before him. “But,”—turning to me, “I'll help you sparingly—you may not like them.” He glanced at his wife, and they both watched me take my first mouthful, then my second, then my third. “Well?” they interrogated simultaneously. “We'll go frog fishing again to-morrow,” I replied, as I passed my plate for a second helping.