THE LION AND THE LAMB

Alexandra Herald and Central Otago Gazette, 13 March 1946, Page 2

THE LION AND THE LAMB

When I told the little man next to me about trout and eels living together happily and being fed in the same pool he merely said in a sing-song fairy-tale voice, "Once upon a time...'. " and I saw the barman wink at him loudly. When I continued that I'd put a finger in the mouth of a 3 ft. eel and taken it out unmarked, the barman rather ostentatiously passed the waterbottle. It was a tribute, somewhat exaggerated, to the quality of the spirits he sold —but not to my veracity or to Albert Porter's patience. So I took the barman to Midhirst with me and this is a story of what we saw.

At the York Road creamery some seven miles from Stratford, the morning routine at the factory had just reached that stage when the floor seemed ankle-deep in water and the air full of steam, but the manager, Albert Porter, was soon persuaded to talk fish. It was no "fish story*' he had to tell. If began more than seven years ago when he first fed trout in the nearby creek with the sediment, rather like curd, from the bottom of the seDarator. There were only a few fish then. They were not seen every day. Sometimes they were not seen for days on end. With that sensitive alert instinct which enables them ito camouflage themselves according to the rocks and weeds of the rivers, they'd glide to cover as soon as a shadow fell on the pool. All he could do then was to throw the food into the water and let them find it later themselves. Now they leap from the water until it appears to boil with fish; they eat from his hand; they seductively turn on their sides to be scratched, and one old Jack fish even allows himself to be lifted from the water—although he shows his resentment by flailing it with his powerful tail and thoroughly dreehching the venturesome invader of his privacy The trout can sometimes be estii mated by the hundredweight now, but seven years ago there were only one or two. First sign that they had overcome their timidity was when they swam lazily to the bank waiting for the food to be thrown in. Then a staging was built out into the uool and for more than a week not a single fish was seen. Shadows. whether of shags, kingfishers or fishermen are signs of a trout's enemies. The staging cast a shadow; a strange one. The daiiv feeding brought back the trout. If attracted also the eels until it became Porter's habit to take a spear every time he went to the dool. He had destroyed many eels before observation convinced him that when there was sufficient food the eels never attacked the other inhabitants. The result is something unique in corded elsewhere. As we lay on the staging and gazed at the sandy bottom of a pool about 15ft. wide and 30ft. long, the ducks were the first to arrive— both domesticated and wild grey duck. Then the trout formed a circle, just out of arm's reach, darting quickly in to snatch the profered morsels from fingers held below the surface. Later they began to leap out flashing their rainbow colours in the sun as they took the food. The eels were the last to arrive for the meal, long and sleek and lazy, but their arrival did not, frighten even the smallest of the fish that are [their natural prey. I like eel fried in batter —if someone else catches it and cooks it and, though I was more trusting than the Little Man and the barman, I would never have believed that I would one day rub my fingers along the back of one of those repulsivelooking, fishy bits of live elastic.... and certainly not one called Mussolini. But Porter's eels are different "Contrary to common belief, they are not slimy," he says. "It's only when they're frightened that they become slimy; that's their natural protection." I almost said that Mussolini answers to his name. In the dusk, when the eels are most frequently seen, they cluster round a basin of milk curd held with the edge just above the surface of the water. Thus they feed for all the world like calves round a trough. Seen in the sunlight, they are a brownish purple colour like that steak there never seem to be enough coupons to buy. Mussolini is the biggest of them all and it is into his mouth that Albert Porter puts his finger.