Читать книгу Newspaper Articles - Edward Sylvester Sorenson - Страница 5
ОглавлениеThe Australian Town and Country Journal
Saturday 22 February 1902
The Freeman’s Journal
Saturday 15 December 1906
The Queenslander (Brisbane)
Saturday 6 December 1913
I began fishing when quite an infant, my tackle consisting of a piece of thread and a bent pin; and the first thing I caught was my father’s hat, which I whisked into the river. He “whisked” me up the bank. Another time I nearly knocked the old man’s eye out, besides smashing his cuddy, with a garfish. I can still see him, with the back of his hand to his optic, looking round for a stick. Then he took his belt off. But I wasn’t there.
When still very young, I had my first experience with a net. I was then going to school, and for that purpose was living with a farmer named Harry Beckford. We borrowed the net from a neighbor. It was too short, Harry said, to put in the river, the fish would get round it; so we took it to a creek five miles down. We also took a large sack each to carry the fish home. We decided to stretch it across a deep hole just above where the creek entered the Richmond River. As we had no boat, I had to swim across with one end and lash it to a tree. Then I sat naked on one bank, and Harry sat smoking his pipe on the other. An hour had passed, when a fish struck it in midstream. As Harry knew of no other way of getting it out, I had to untie my end of the net and swim back with it. We hauled it out in a tangled heap, but, to our disgust, the fish remained in the creek.
Our second and last ground was a mile above Tathan Bridge. Here was a deep pool, clear as crystal, in which a shoal of fish were swimming about. Just above the stream shallowed suddenly, being no more than a foot deep, with a clear, sandy bottom. We stretched it across this shallow and again I had to undress, This time I was told to plunge in below the pool, and swim up stream to drive the fish into the net. It reminded me of an old blackfellow, who compelled his lubra to dive in the river to put fish on his hook, as they wouldn’t bite. When she failed to catch any, he chastised her for being too lazy. However, I plunged in and swam up, shouting and splashing, and now and again emitting a terrified yell as the darting mullet brushed my sides, or tickled me with a fin. About twenty leaped over me, and one did actually dart into the net. Harry was greatly excited, and yelled to me to come and take it out. I was rather long in coming, so he rushed in himself, with his boots on, and had got nicely wet when the fish got out on its own account.
We then, one on each bank, dragged the net into the pool, and went, half a mile down, and beat the water all the way back with long sticks. The corks were bobbing when we returned. I untied my end, and Barry dragged the net across. He wasn’t going to run any risks this time. Out it came with a splash—a squirming, wriggling mass of eel. Harry said lots of things, but nothing printable. The net was a pitiable sight when he had done belting that eel. It had “gashes” from end to end, and a great quantity of leaves, twigs, and branches were rolled in it, and glued to it with slime. “How much did Dougherty say he wanted for it?” asked Harry. “A pound.” He threw it under a bush. “Fetch the sacks, boy. We’ll get.”
A few years later (1884), I drove with two men named Dalton and Page to Drury’s Lagoon, a few miles north of Casino, for net-fishing. We took a small canoe with us, and reached the lagoon about sunset. Whilst the men dropped the net I made a fire and boiled the billy. During supper we frequently heard the slashing of the floaters, and anticipated a good haul. It was a still, starlit night, and across the water came the lone, lone cry of the curlew. His pipe filled, Dalton and I got into the canoe to secure the fish. At the first lift we got a surprise. Entangled in the meshes were the heads of five large mullet. We pulled a little further along, and lifted again, with the same result—heads. In fact, it was the same right to the end of the net. Every fish had been decapitated, and we brought back twenty-seven heads. We examined them at the fire, and after much speculation, concluded they had been bitten off by some monster inhabiting the lagoon. Page then decided to remain on the water, and ascertain if possible what kind of a thing it could be. I went with him, armed with a lantern. We were scarcely afloat, when there was a commotion in mid-water. We hurried out, and lifted the net. Near the top was the head of a big perch. It was quick work, and we were more interested than ever. We remained there with the light covered, waiting for an opportunity of proving the nature of our piscatorial pirate. We had waited about half an hour, when the chance came. A mullet struck the net near the surface, and I flashed the light upon it. In a few seconds a broad, dark head shot up, and almost at a chop the fish was severed. With a great splash it turned downwards, and we saw the long white belly of an enormous eel! After that there was nothing for it but to lift the net. The lagoon was literally alive with rapacious eels, and from the rapidity with which they snapped up the netted perch and mullet they appeared to be patrolling the net.
My favorite style of fishing was with the rod and line, and the pursuance of this sport has led me into some queer predicaments. I have paddled myself out on a log to reach a coveted spot, and have had to hang the flapping things to my belt with a wire hook. I have straddled over hanging limbs, at times having to swing the fish towards me and catch them between my knees. On one occasion, I desired to fish a fine hole in Tomki Creek, Richmond River, but could not do so from the bank, which was very steep, as thick scrub grew to the water’s edge. A dead sapling, however, spanned the creek from bank to bank, being about 10ft above water. Along this I climbed, with my pickle-bottle of grasshoppers and crickets in my pocket. It was the season, early summer, when perch bite readily at this kind of bait. Straddling the sapling in the centre, I cast out. The cork had scarcely touched the water when it was jerked under, and drawn away in the quick decisive manner that delights the heart of an angler. I had just got the weight of the fish when the sapling snapped, and let me a tremendous souse into the creek. After scrambling out, I had a wild chase through scrub and bush after my rod. Gliding like a live thing along the surface, diving into the deep holes, dipping and plunging, with many a mad rush, it shot down the creek, and out into the broad river. That was the last I saw of it—and I had walked five miles to fish that hole! I was somewhat recompensed, however, a week later. Seven miles below the creek I caught a perch that had a hook stuck firmly in its upper lip. To this was attached about 4ft of line, with my floater on the end of it.
Another day I lost two hooks within a few minutes, and half-an-hour later, at a different spot, I landed a cat-fish with both hooks in its mouth. Generally after losing one or two fish, no further bites will be obtained for some time. This has led people to believe that such fish as the perch, mullet, bream, etc., have some method of communication. Now, it must be admitted that, before a fish can communicate danger to others, it must first be conscious of danger itself. That it is not is shown by the fact of its biting at another spot shortly after escaping. Neither has it any sense of observation, otherwise it would not be possible to catch a number, one by one, from a comparatively small shoal. The reason that they cease biting when one or two have been dropped is that the escapee immediately darts away, and the others follow; for fish, like most things else, follow a leader.
Once, at Texas, on the Severn River, Queensland, a mate and I, while spelling our horses, had a fortnight’s splendid sport among the black bream and Murray cod. They bit so well that we could have supplied the metropolitan markets with fish had facilities for exportation permitted. We had no local market, of course. The Texas housewife, if short of meat for dinner, has only to say to the old man: “Go and get me six bream and a cod for supper.” The old man goes down with his line, and in ten minutes returns with the required number. Texas is a great tobacco-growing district, though the industry is mostly in the hands of Chinese. We regretted this, as the Mongolians could not be induced to barter with us. Among the few whites outside the town, however, we did better. We exchanged fish for tobacco at the factory, and for beef at the station. What we could not dispose of immediately we salted, and stacked for the mail man, who, the Texas people told us, bought all he could get at threepence a pound, and took a load every week to Stanthorpe and Goondiwindi. Pleasure now became business, and daily we fished our favorite spot, which we called Codshearer Bay, and carried to camp as much fish on a long pole as the two of us could stagger under. Even then we had once or twice to tether a cod in the river till morning. It was hot weather, and the cod, being exceptionally fat, were hard to cure. Every morning we had to look over them, and wash the maggots out of any the flies had got at. By the end of the week we had a great square stack as high as our tent. Then we interviewed the mailman at the local pub.
“No, he wasn’t taking any more. The market had dropped, and he’d sold only about half of his last load.”
Next morning we left Texas very early. We also left the fish.
I have on two occasions caught an old boot with the rod-line. I have yanked my fish up into a tree, and had to climb after it; and once I hauled a dead dog to the surface. But the most curious thing I ever caught on a line was at Eurombar Station, Dawson River, Queensland, in September, 1895. We were after barrimundi, a rare fish of large size, and excellent quality, but extremely shy, and difficult to catch. This was the first opportunity I had had of fishing for barrimundi, and was thus rather eager to make my first catch. Before going out, Mr. Lord, of Eurombar Station, favored me with some instructions. I was to select calm water, on the sunny side for choice, throw far out, with my floater not more than 2ft from the hook. Then I was to conceal myself and remain very quiet. I went up about a mile and a half to what is known as the washpool, and selected a place where concealment would be easy in a patch of long, blady grass. I baited with a large brown frog, just hooking it by the skin, so that it would kick about and attract the fish. I cast out, and then sat down, and remained so quiet that I fell asleep. I must have slept an hour, and on waking, commenced to haul in my line. To my astonishment, instead of coming from the water, I was hauling it through the long grass from up the bank. I opined that a turtle had taken the hook, and gone ashore with it. But presently a great commotion in the grass undeceived me. I admit I felt a little uneasy at this juncture, and shifted to a clear spot close by, and as I hauled the thing nearer to me, edged towards a stout waddy. Tradition has it that this lagoon was haunted by a bunyip. The blacks dreaded it, and none would ever swim in its waters. I thought of this as I drew the long line in. Had it actually been a bunyip, I could not have been more startled than I was at the reality. What was it but a large black snake! It broke into the clear space in a writhing mass of coils, darting and striking at the line, its head flattened in deadly anger. I picked up the waddy, and while it bit at its own body, killed it. I made no attempt to recover my hook. I was content to cut the line. Apparently the frog had kicked away till it got ashore with the line, when it fell a prey to the snake.
