Episode Transcript
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter eight of an Angler's Hours by Hugh Tempest Cheringham.
This livervox recording is in the public domain. Chapter eight
a miniature trout stream Pebbleville on sea, as the prospectus
putting it before the notice of all who like a
(00:22):
really quiet seaside resort, had said, was certainly neither brighton
nor margate. No bathing machines broke the continuity of coast.
No gentlemen of temporary color mocked the moaning ocean with
comic songs. No Paris confections were ridiculously outlined against the infinite.
(00:47):
Pebbleville was small and scattered. Its houses were but landmarks,
so to speak, dotted about, as though each represented the
corner of a street that should have been seeing when
Pebbleville had become a Brighton or a margate. Pebbleville was inexpensive,
(01:07):
and its few visitors were elderly and given to meditation.
They neither romped nor paddled, but strolled gently along the cliff,
or sat gently on the three seats that showed where
the esplanade should be in time to come. In a word,
Pebbleville was the very place, and yet the Angler was dissatisfied,
(01:35):
unreasonably dissatisfied. For had he not been at some pains
to find a spot where his great literary undertaking should
be inaugurated between the sea and the sky, a spot
where no distractions could exist, a spot where thought should
be trammeled by no worldly considerations whatsoever. And to this
(01:59):
end had he not put rods and tackle firmly away
and disregarded all advertisements that contained the word fishing. So
now he was in the exact haven of his desire,
but not at all pleased with it, frowning at the
fishless sea. If it were not fishless, it was at
(02:21):
any rate unfishable, for Pebbleville possessed no peer, no jetty,
and no boats. He turned gloomily in the direction of
the winter garden, that is to say, in the direction
of what would some day be the winter garden. At
present it was a large piece of gorse clad common land,
(02:42):
enclosed in a wire fence and adorned with eleven small
Christmas trees, the first beginnings of a plantation. Passing round
the Christmas trees, he found his path impeded by a ditch,
a small matter, but one that had far reaching results,
as will appear. The ditch was two feet in width
(03:06):
and contained water of a somber quality. The angler, unwilling
to step across to the dubious opposite bank, through the
end of his cigarette indignantly into the obstacle. Then a
remarkable thing happened. There was a commotion in the murky water,
and the missile disappeared, only to reappear a moment later.
(03:31):
The angler whistled and rubbed his eyes. Then he whistled again.
Then he turned and sought for some means of testing
what looked like a discovery. Grasshoppers were plentiful in the
thin grass round him, and very soon one was captured
and thrown after the cigarette end. Again there was a
(03:54):
commotion and the grasshopper disappeared, But this time there was
no reappearance. And this time the angler had been on
the alert and had distinctly seen the form of a
small fish, a small fish moreover, with spots. His countenance cleared.
(04:17):
Pebbleville was, after all not so dull a place as
he had thought, And presently he had made honorable amends
and acknowledged to himself that a man might go farther
and fare worse. This after a little exploration had revealed
that the ditch was in reality a tiny, sluggish brook,
(04:39):
which here and there widened out into a pool, and
was everywhere of some depth. Pebbleville, as has been intimated,
is not the Rose, but it lives near one. The
fashionable watering place of peer Haven, is but a short
journey away. Pier Haven boasts, of course, shops, and the
(05:03):
same afternoon the angler expended some twenty shillings on such
a flyfisher's outfit as a place where no fly fishing
is could afford. The next morning saw him putting up
a nine foot green heart rod on the bank of
the brook and smiling partly with pleasure, partly with amusement.
(05:26):
It really seemed rather ridiculous to fish for trout in
so microscopic a stream. Fate appeared to agree with him,
for not a cast had been made when an interruption
occurred in the shape of a gamekeeper in leggings, who
politely asked if the angler had permission to fish. Needless
to say, the angler had not permission. The inhabitants of
(05:50):
Pebbleville had assured him that the brook was as free
and troutless as air, But the keeper was better in form.
The water, he admitted, contained fish, but he feared so
wanton an innovation as angling for them could not be
thought of. He was polite but firm, So the angler
(06:13):
tendered his card, took down his rod, and departed disconsulate.
Pebbleville was, after all a poor place to inaugurate a
great literary undertaking in, and the rest of the day
proved it conclusively. On the morrow, however, the sun rose
at his accustomed time and with more than his accustomed brightness.
(06:37):
For on the breakfast table lay a letter, which, in
a few courteous phrases, acknowledged the receipt of his card,
and gave the angler the privilege of fishing in the
brook as long and as much as he pleased. Pebbleville
was itself again, breakfast was eaten with appetite. A note
(06:59):
thanking the owner of the land for an exceptionally graceful
act of courtesy was written and posted, and in a
very short time the winter garden was being crossed with
hasty steps. The Christmas trees seemed to have grown in
the night, and the brook was certainly larger than it
had appeared. The peer Haven fly rod was a miracle
(07:22):
of cheapness at half a guinea, and the march Brown
was by no means ill tired in short fortune, wore
a smiling face as the first cast was made from
behind a BlackBerry bush onto a pool at the lowest
end of the garden. The moment the fly touched the water,
(07:43):
a tiny fish was upon it, and was immediately twitched
out so as not to disturb the pool more than
was necessary. The captive was an undoubted trout, though it
measured scarce five inches and was rather dark in color,
a natural result of living in so opaque a stream.
(08:04):
It did not take long to make these observations, and
returned the fish to the water, and then the fly
was again dispatched round the bush. The second cast produced
a second troutlet even smaller than the first, and within
five minutes the angler had twitched out three others from
the same place, and he began to wonder whether he
(08:25):
had stumbled on a hatchery and was angling among the fry. Presently, however,
he found that there were better fish in the brook.
The march Brown fell just at the edge of a
film that had collected on one corner. There was a
flash of a golden side, and a strong fish was
(08:46):
soon testing the five ounce rod to the full value
of its half guinea, dashing madly about the pool and
twice jumping out of the water. Fortunately there were few
weeds and the trout did not attempt to bolt upstream,
and before long he was being lifted triumphantly out in
(09:06):
the peer Haven landing net. A simple affair of cost
proportion to the rod spring balance, the angler had none,
so he could only estimate his capture's weight at half
a pound or thereabouts, reflecting that though half a pound
is no great matter in itself, it means a good
deal coming out of a pool barely three yards in
(09:29):
length and to in width. This fish, too was dark
on the back, but was beautifully golden on the sides,
well spotted, and very plump. After the trout had been
killed and placed amid some dock leaves in peer Haven's
canvas bag, the fisherman left the pool very well satisfied
(09:51):
and began to fish upstream. It was not easy fishing
in places. The brooks two feet of width were reduced
to one by overhanging brambles which stretched out interfering tentacles
and grasped the fly before it ever could touch the water. That,
at least is how it seemed to the man. The
(10:13):
brambles might conceivably have retorted with comments on his inaccurate casting.
But to this insufficient stream held a marvelous stock of
little trout, and almost every time the fly touched the water,
an impudent fish of approximately half an ounce would hastily
appropriate it. But no more big ones were seen or
(10:36):
felt until the next pool was reached. This pool was
surrounded completely by briers, and only about the yard of
water was visible at all. However, the angler flicked the
fly over the wall of leaves, and, still on tiptoe
to observe the result. There was a rise immediately, and
(10:57):
a good fish took the fly firmly way under the
thickest bush before its owner could interfere. Justly annoyed, the
angler applied pressure, and then the pea haven rod lost
heart about the business, and said so with ominous crackings.
No half guinea fly rod yet built could be expected
(11:20):
to pull a half pound shrout out of a bush.
The angler anathematized pea Haven and desisted. An attempt to
pull the fish out by grasping the line failed, and
the fly was lost. Then the rod was examined. Fortunately
(11:40):
it had not snapped off clean and had only begun
to split in the middle of the second joint, and
after being bound for a few inches with a piece
of fine string, it seemed fairly sound. It was soon
tested again. Close above the scene of the accident was
another little pool, below a miniature stickle. The water was
(12:03):
clearer as there was more life in it, and it
ran deep under the angler's own bank. There was no
cover here, so he knelt down away from the water
and cast the new March Brown up stream, close to
the edge, trusting to his hand to tell him of
a rise, which it did almost at once, as another
(12:24):
half pounder impetuously hooked himself. He was handled with great tenderness,
for the rod was obviously not to be trusted, and
it was quite a long time before he joined his
brother in the canvas bag. Join him he did, however,
and the rod was still whole as marvelous to relate.
(12:45):
It remained during the whole of the fortnight that its
purchaser stayed in Pebbleville, And in spite of being used
on this part of the brook or another daily, and
in spite of subsequently, being much harder worked on this
its first day, the braces recorded completed the bag, for
no more big ones rose, although the midgets were insatiable.
(13:10):
But as the angler grew better acquainted with the peculiarities
of the stream, his catches improved, until one evening he
returned proudly home with five braces of fish, of which
the smallest was half a pound, and the largest not
far off a pound. A truly remarkable basket for so
(13:30):
microscopic a stream. Pebbleville on sea stands in a niche
by itself in the gallery of happy memories, and the
great literary undertaking has not yet been inaugurated. End of
Chapter eight
Chapter eight of an Angler's Hours by Hugh Tempest Cheringham.
This livervox recording is in the public domain. Chapter eight
a miniature trout stream Pebbleville on sea, as the prospectus
putting it before the notice of all who like a
(00:22):
really quiet seaside resort, had said, was certainly neither brighton
nor margate. No bathing machines broke the continuity of coast.
No gentlemen of temporary color mocked the moaning ocean with
comic songs. No Paris confections were ridiculously outlined against the infinite.
(00:47):
Pebbleville was small and scattered. Its houses were but landmarks,
so to speak, dotted about, as though each represented the
corner of a street that should have been seeing when
Pebbleville had become a Brighton or a margate. Pebbleville was inexpensive,
(01:07):
and its few visitors were elderly and given to meditation.
They neither romped nor paddled, but strolled gently along the cliff,
or sat gently on the three seats that showed where
the esplanade should be in time to come. In a word,
Pebbleville was the very place, and yet the Angler was dissatisfied,
(01:35):
unreasonably dissatisfied. For had he not been at some pains
to find a spot where his great literary undertaking should
be inaugurated between the sea and the sky, a spot
where no distractions could exist, a spot where thought should
be trammeled by no worldly considerations whatsoever. And to this
(01:59):
end had he not put rods and tackle firmly away
and disregarded all advertisements that contained the word fishing. So
now he was in the exact haven of his desire,
but not at all pleased with it, frowning at the
fishless sea. If it were not fishless, it was at
(02:21):
any rate unfishable, for Pebbleville possessed no peer, no jetty,
and no boats. He turned gloomily in the direction of
the winter garden, that is to say, in the direction
of what would some day be the winter garden. At
present it was a large piece of gorse clad common land,
(02:42):
enclosed in a wire fence and adorned with eleven small
Christmas trees, the first beginnings of a plantation. Passing round
the Christmas trees, he found his path impeded by a ditch,
a small matter, but one that had far reaching results,
as will appear. The ditch was two feet in width
(03:06):
and contained water of a somber quality. The angler, unwilling
to step across to the dubious opposite bank, through the
end of his cigarette indignantly into the obstacle. Then a
remarkable thing happened. There was a commotion in the murky water,
and the missile disappeared, only to reappear a moment later.
(03:31):
The angler whistled and rubbed his eyes. Then he whistled again.
Then he turned and sought for some means of testing
what looked like a discovery. Grasshoppers were plentiful in the
thin grass round him, and very soon one was captured
and thrown after the cigarette end. Again there was a
(03:54):
commotion and the grasshopper disappeared, But this time there was
no reappearance. And this time the angler had been on
the alert and had distinctly seen the form of a
small fish, a small fish moreover, with spots. His countenance cleared.
(04:17):
Pebbleville was, after all not so dull a place as
he had thought, And presently he had made honorable amends
and acknowledged to himself that a man might go farther
and fare worse. This after a little exploration had revealed
that the ditch was in reality a tiny, sluggish brook,
(04:39):
which here and there widened out into a pool, and
was everywhere of some depth. Pebbleville, as has been intimated,
is not the Rose, but it lives near one. The
fashionable watering place of peer Haven, is but a short
journey away. Pier Haven boasts, of course, shops, and the
(05:03):
same afternoon the angler expended some twenty shillings on such
a flyfisher's outfit as a place where no fly fishing
is could afford. The next morning saw him putting up
a nine foot green heart rod on the bank of
the brook and smiling partly with pleasure, partly with amusement.
(05:26):
It really seemed rather ridiculous to fish for trout in
so microscopic a stream. Fate appeared to agree with him,
for not a cast had been made when an interruption
occurred in the shape of a gamekeeper in leggings, who
politely asked if the angler had permission to fish. Needless
to say, the angler had not permission. The inhabitants of
(05:50):
Pebbleville had assured him that the brook was as free
and troutless as air, But the keeper was better in form.
The water, he admitted, contained fish, but he feared so
wanton an innovation as angling for them could not be
thought of. He was polite but firm, So the angler
(06:13):
tendered his card, took down his rod, and departed disconsulate.
Pebbleville was, after all a poor place to inaugurate a
great literary undertaking in, and the rest of the day
proved it conclusively. On the morrow, however, the sun rose
at his accustomed time and with more than his accustomed brightness.
(06:37):
For on the breakfast table lay a letter, which, in
a few courteous phrases, acknowledged the receipt of his card,
and gave the angler the privilege of fishing in the
brook as long and as much as he pleased. Pebbleville
was itself again, breakfast was eaten with appetite. A note
(06:59):
thanking the owner of the land for an exceptionally graceful
act of courtesy was written and posted, and in a
very short time the winter garden was being crossed with
hasty steps. The Christmas trees seemed to have grown in
the night, and the brook was certainly larger than it
had appeared. The peer Haven fly rod was a miracle
(07:22):
of cheapness at half a guinea, and the march Brown
was by no means ill tired in short fortune, wore
a smiling face as the first cast was made from
behind a BlackBerry bush onto a pool at the lowest
end of the garden. The moment the fly touched the water,
(07:43):
a tiny fish was upon it, and was immediately twitched
out so as not to disturb the pool more than
was necessary. The captive was an undoubted trout, though it
measured scarce five inches and was rather dark in color,
a natural result of living in so opaque a stream.
(08:04):
It did not take long to make these observations, and
returned the fish to the water, and then the fly
was again dispatched round the bush. The second cast produced
a second troutlet even smaller than the first, and within
five minutes the angler had twitched out three others from
the same place, and he began to wonder whether he
(08:25):
had stumbled on a hatchery and was angling among the fry. Presently, however,
he found that there were better fish in the brook.
The march Brown fell just at the edge of a
film that had collected on one corner. There was a
flash of a golden side, and a strong fish was
(08:46):
soon testing the five ounce rod to the full value
of its half guinea, dashing madly about the pool and
twice jumping out of the water. Fortunately there were few
weeds and the trout did not attempt to bolt upstream,
and before long he was being lifted triumphantly out in
(09:06):
the peer Haven landing net. A simple affair of cost
proportion to the rod spring balance, the angler had none,
so he could only estimate his capture's weight at half
a pound or thereabouts, reflecting that though half a pound
is no great matter in itself, it means a good
deal coming out of a pool barely three yards in
(09:29):
length and to in width. This fish, too was dark
on the back, but was beautifully golden on the sides,
well spotted, and very plump. After the trout had been
killed and placed amid some dock leaves in peer Haven's
canvas bag, the fisherman left the pool very well satisfied
(09:51):
and began to fish upstream. It was not easy fishing
in places. The brooks two feet of width were reduced
to one by overhanging brambles which stretched out interfering tentacles
and grasped the fly before it ever could touch the water. That,
at least is how it seemed to the man. The
(10:13):
brambles might conceivably have retorted with comments on his inaccurate casting.
But to this insufficient stream held a marvelous stock of
little trout, and almost every time the fly touched the water,
an impudent fish of approximately half an ounce would hastily
appropriate it. But no more big ones were seen or
(10:36):
felt until the next pool was reached. This pool was
surrounded completely by briers, and only about the yard of
water was visible at all. However, the angler flicked the
fly over the wall of leaves, and, still on tiptoe
to observe the result. There was a rise immediately, and
(10:57):
a good fish took the fly firmly way under the
thickest bush before its owner could interfere. Justly annoyed, the
angler applied pressure, and then the pea haven rod lost
heart about the business, and said so with ominous crackings.
No half guinea fly rod yet built could be expected
(11:20):
to pull a half pound shrout out of a bush.
The angler anathematized pea Haven and desisted. An attempt to
pull the fish out by grasping the line failed, and
the fly was lost. Then the rod was examined. Fortunately
(11:40):
it had not snapped off clean and had only begun
to split in the middle of the second joint, and
after being bound for a few inches with a piece
of fine string, it seemed fairly sound. It was soon
tested again. Close above the scene of the accident was
another little pool, below a miniature stickle. The water was
(12:03):
clearer as there was more life in it, and it
ran deep under the angler's own bank. There was no
cover here, so he knelt down away from the water
and cast the new March Brown up stream, close to
the edge, trusting to his hand to tell him of
a rise, which it did almost at once, as another
(12:24):
half pounder impetuously hooked himself. He was handled with great tenderness,
for the rod was obviously not to be trusted, and
it was quite a long time before he joined his
brother in the canvas bag. Join him he did, however,
and the rod was still whole as marvelous to relate.
(12:45):
It remained during the whole of the fortnight that its
purchaser stayed in Pebbleville, And in spite of being used
on this part of the brook or another daily, and
in spite of subsequently, being much harder worked on this
its first day, the braces recorded completed the bag, for
no more big ones rose, although the midgets were insatiable.
(13:10):
But as the angler grew better acquainted with the peculiarities
of the stream, his catches improved, until one evening he
returned proudly home with five braces of fish, of which
the smallest was half a pound, and the largest not
far off a pound. A truly remarkable basket for so
(13:30):
microscopic a stream. Pebbleville on sea stands in a niche
by itself in the gallery of happy memories, and the
great literary undertaking has not yet been inaugurated. End of
Chapter eight
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