Sports and Pastimes.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLV, Issue 25, 21 December 1910, Page 8

Sports and Pastimes.

WITH ROD AND LINE

Specially Written for the “ Weekly Graphic.”

By

MAJOR BOYD WILSON,

A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS.

IN a greater or lesser degree accidents and contretemps are the lot of every angler, and, sad to relate,

many of them can l*c directly traceable to some sin of omission, or faulty lommission, on the part of the fisherman himself. As an example of the latter may be cited that most humiliating way of losing a good fish, tlie slipping of a gut knot. The angler has hooked an antagonist worthy of his steel, the fish darts athwart the stream in indignant pretest to the unpalatable hook which has so unaccountably got stuck fast in his jaws, the rod bends, the reel chatters, the pleasing sensation of being fast in a good fish fills the angler's soul with content, the world is onee more young and life decidedly worth the living. Suddenly, an appalling sense of loss withers the joyful emotions of an instant ago, a feeling as if the very springs of pleasurable existence had suddenly run dry, comes like a eold and freezing blizzard to depress the angler’s spirit: the reel ceases to peal out its dulcet music, the rod straightens, the electric current that was flowing between fish and fisherman is cut off, and the elack and inert line conies back with a foot and a-half of gut east dangling at the end. All of us know that unhappy moment, and receive it according to our different temperaments: some use language that even the Speaker of the Legislative body would feel bound to disapprove of, others are so sunk in gloom that mere words cannot do justice to the catastrophe, while again, there is the philosophic soul who comforts himself with the reflection that ‘‘lt is better to have hooked and lost, than never to have hooked at all.” And the cause of all this woe? Examination shows that the gut has not broken, even that consolation is denied us, and we are unable to pour out the vials of our wrath and disappointment on the absent and innocent purveyor of the aforesaid gut. No! the tiny tell-tale cut at the extremity of the divorced link shows only too plainly that the knot, the knot made with our own fingers, has slipped and that no one but ourselves is to blame for the unhappy incident. Onee more we vow that in future we will test every knot and every Irak of the easting line, so that this shall not again happen: but the lesson is forgotten in time, and it only requires a very minor prophet to foresee that in the future the whole scene will be again re-enacted, even down to its smallest detail. Sometimes in easting an ominous crack mny be heard as the line is too hastily stopped in its backward movement: every angler knows that that signal means that the gut at its junction with the tail-fly has received a severe wrench; in bad cases sufficient to sever it. Every angler also knows that as a matter of precaution he should examine his tail-fly, and if the gut is frayed break it off and tie it on again: but very often this obvious safeguard is overlooked, and the angler contents himself with seeing that the fly is still there. What is the consequence? A rise, a strike and the line comes back minus the tail-fly. and once (again the angler experiences all the miseries which an attempt has been made to depict. The above are miseries which are very real at the time, but the passing hours kindly obliterate them, or at least remove the most poignant of the sting: but there is a lower level of misery yet which is open to the angler to reach, the sad recollection of which even the healing hand of time can hardly remove, as the following all-true tale will show. Many years ago two friends set out to fl-.li a well known reach of one of the most famous trout streams of the Border. The water was in perfect order, the day dull, with a gentle westerly zephyr lightly stilling the fresh green leaves of the oaks and ashes, and setting the greenery of the beeche* ail aquiver. It was au

ideal fishing morning, and sport was good, spirits were high, and everything looked eouleur de rose. Towards evening, after sundry brown trout had been successfully creeled, one of the two hooked a sea trout of about five pounds in weight, for a few of these fish come up the river in question in the spring. Anxiously he played the fish, while his friend, summoned by his call, looked on in almost as great anxiety for the result, for this was by far the biggest fish that either had, up to then, ever had intimate acquaintance with, and his capture would be a notable achievement. The young angler handled his antagonist with great eare and skill, and with the outward coolness of a veteran. In spite of desperate rushes, dogged sulkiness, and terrifying leaps in the air on the part of the fish, the fisherman gradually wore the silvery beauty down, and coaxed him nearer and nearer to the bank where his companion stood, landing net in hand and excitement boiling through his veins, ready to do his part when the fish should be near enough. Closer it came, and yet closer. It is almost within reach. Now! A wild swoop with the net! A splash! An exclamation! A broken line dangling in the air! and the fish disappearing with a farewell flicker of his tail! The situation can be imagined. It is too tragic for words to describe, but the misery of that moment can never be obliterated. The writer knows, for his was the unhappy hand that held the net.