There's 'Brave Pawling and the Spy,' and 'Bold Hawthorne,' and 'American Taxation.' That last poem, Captain, has got the true essence of poetry in it. If I was the author of that, I'd die content. The poem goes on to say.

"'The cruel lords of Britain, Who glory in their shame, The project they have hit on They joyfully proclaim; 'Tis what they're striving after, Our rights to take away, And rob us of our charter, In North America.'

"Then 'two mighty speakers, who rule in Piedmont,' propose to King George a plan for taxation of the colonies, to which the king accedes, and says:

"'My subjects shall be taxed In North America

Invested with a warrant My publicans shall go, The tenth of all their current They surely shall bestow: If they indulge rebellion, Or from my precepts stray, I'll send my war battalion To North America.'

"Then the people of the colonies address King George, and implore him not to tax 'em; and finally say that if he does they'll fight about it, and that

"'We never will knock under, O George, we do not fear The rattling of your thunder, Nor lightning of your spear;

Though rebels you declare us, We're strangers to dismay; Therefore you cannot scare us In North America.'

"It's a great poem, Captain; it was written by a schoolmaster in Connecticut."

"It is patriotic in tone," replied Ralph; "it has that merit, at least.

Are you much acquainted with the old poets of the country?"

"A little, Captain; I've read them all. Besides Mrs. Bradstreet, there's Roger Wolcott, Nathaniel Ward, Mather Byles, Joseph Green, Peter Foulger, old Michael Wigglesworth, and hosts of others. A splendid galaxy, Captain! There's 'The Day of Doom; or, a Poetical Description of the Great and Last Judgment,' by Wigglesworth. It _is_ rather strong on the old New England religion, but as a piece of poetical work, it's really great. Was anything ever more terrible than the description of the final judgment? After the sentence is p.r.o.nounced, before the condemned,

"'They wring their hands, their caitiff hands, And gnash their teeth in terror; They cry, they war, for anguish sore, And gnaw their tongues for horror; But get away, without delay, Christ pities not your cry: Depart to h.e.l.l--there ye may yell, And war eternally.'

"We can admire poetry, sometimes, when we don't precisely approve of the sentiments. Did you ever see a more terrific piece of writing than that, Captain?"

"It is full of horrors, I must confess," said Ralph, who was beginning to get weary at the extent of Ichabod's poetical recollections; "but we are near the cottage, and we must now make our preparations for the fishing expedition. Are you anything of a fisherman, Ichabod?"

"I can't say that I am, Captain. With all respect for the taste of other people, it always looked to me like rather poor sport. A man may do that, as he does anything else, for a livelihood; but, for sport, give me a rifle, a sharp eye, and a practised hand. Howsomever, I am with you."

The afternoon seemed to prepare itself expressly for the accommodation of the fishing party. Light clouds covered the sky and a gentle south wind just stirred the face of the water. Sambo had been to the river and caught for bait a quant.i.ty of small white fish; and, equipped with hooks and line, Barton, with Ralph and Ichabod, proceeded to the pond, where they entered a boat that had been made by hollowing out two halves of a large log, some three feet in diameter and attaching them together.

Barton paddled towards the north-west side, and advanced some fifteen or twenty rods from the sh.o.r.e.

"In this portion of the pond," said he, "the pickerel are most abundant.

Perch are found in large quant.i.ties near the south-east sh.o.r.e."

They then fastened the bait, which had been kept alive, to the hooks, and threw them overboard. Ichabod was a stranger to this manner of fishing, and he watched the proceedings with an evident degree of interest. Ralph had been accustomed to it in his boyhood and therefore needed no instructions.

Seeing that Ichabod did not understand the course of operations, Barton said to him, "It is necessary, usually, for the purpose of securing the fish, whenever it strikes the bait, to allow it to run with the line for a short distance, when it stops and endeavors to swallow its prey. If it succeeds in doing so, or if it finds itself hooked, it then runs. Then is the time to pull; pull slowly, but steadily, and you have him."

"Hallo! ive got one!" shouted Ichabod; and, mindful of the directions he had just received, he commenced jerking and pulling violently on his line. The fish, which was of good size, and would weigh from two to three pounds, came struggling towards the boat, as if not anxious to make a more familiar acquaintance with the party. "Ah you varmint,--you Seneca!" shouted Ichabod. "Pull will you! I'll show you a trick worth two of that!" He had just got the fish close to the side of the boat, and was eagerly bent over to grasp him, if necessary, when the pickerel, with a desperate struggle, that splashed the water in all directions, broke loose, and darted with the rapidity of light, as it seemed to the eyes of Ichabod, back into the pond. The excitement, and the sudden release of the prisoner, nearly capsized Ichabod. He fell towards the other side of the boat, and and had it not been for Ralph, would have tumbled overboard.

"Hallo, there!" said Barton, laughing, "it's no use going into the water after him; you cannot catch him that way."

Ralph also laughed heartily at the accident; and Ichabod, much disconcerted, quietly fastened another bait, determined to succeed better on the next trial.

Just then, a pickerel of large size darted at Barton's bait, and Barton eased off his line, while the fish ran with it some eight or ten feet, and then commenced its efforts to swallow the captive it had seized. It would have been amusing to one who had no experience in the excitements of that species of fishing, to have Seen the evident anxiety of Barton.

To the sportsman, the excitement is of such a degree as almost to obtain the mastery of his calmness, when, with a dart like a flash of sunlight, the pickerel seizes the bait, and flies so suddenly that one can scarcely say he saw it; then comes the violent twitching and jerking of the line, as the monster endeavors in its eagerness to devour its prey.

Barton waited patiently, until by the rapid motion of his line through the water, it was apparent that the pickerel was disposed to make off, either entirely satisfied or very much dissatisfied,--when, with a steady pull, he a.s.sisted the captive in its escape, and brought it slowly, but struggling violently, back to the boat. In a moment it was lifted in, and the capture was completed. One would have supposed from the appearance of Barton, that he had triumphed in some great encounter in another and more important field of action. But it is true, although perhaps not strange, that we enjoy with as keen a relish, a triumph, when we contend only with trifles, if our success is owing to our own skill or wisdom, as we do, where we triumph over greater obstacles with less skill, but with the a.s.sistance of accident.

Barton and Ralph both had extensively "good luck," and the boat began to be loaded with the fish they had taken. Ichabod, who for some time had watched their operations with much interest, had, of late, become silent, and seemed to pay little or no attention to the sport. His first failure, and the success of the others, had disconcerted him somewhat; and his want of luck began to make him think he was engaged in rather dull business.

At an interval of cessation in their sport, which had now become a little like labor, Ralph turned to Ichabod, and said,

"How now, Ichabod--did that pickerel run away with your spirits? Wake up, man; what are you dreaming about?"

"Confound the varmints!" exclaimed Ichabod. "The perva.r.s.e cree'turs ain't worth talking about, to say nothing about skirmishing here half a day after 'em. Give me a chance at them deer yonder in the woods, or the wolves I've heered of round here, and we'd have something to talk about, I tell you."

"Well we'll give you a chance," said Barton laughing; "you shall have an opportunity to triumph in your own field. You don't like pickerel-fishing, then?"

"Pickerel-fishing," replied Ichabod gravely; "may be good sport for them as likes it, and have a cunning that way; but you see, I don't look upon it as a reg'lar large business any way. Give me the sports one can unite with business. Now you see, the man that's a good shot on a deer, may be jist as good a shot, providing he has steady nerves, on an Injin; but you can't catch Senecas or Onondagas with this kind of bait. No, I don't like it, Squire." And Ichabod drew back into his former position of listlessness.

"I say, Squire," said he, in a moment, with a twinkle of his eyes, as if he had hit upon a happy idea. "I say, Squire, there's one way you might make this pond profitable. This wasn't put here merely to grow these cussed varmints in. Things has their uses; and the uses of this body of water isn't to cover fish sp.a.w.n, as any man can see with half an eye."

"Well, Ichabod, any more factory projects?" asked Barton with an attempt at composure.

"There isn't anything to laugh at in that idea," said Ichabod. "You haven't thought of it as much as I have. But I tell you, Squire, you might jist as well build up this country here, and make your own spec.

out of it, as to allow some body else to come in here, and do it; for 'twill be done, I tell you. A country like this can't be kept out of all its advantages a great while, any way. Now, you see, this pond, Squire, providing--I say, _providing_--you can get a proper fall of water from it, as I reckon you can, would make a great chance for a mill privilege, or something of that sort; and you see, Squire, if that could be done, you'd have a supply of water here, that----Creation, what _have_ I got hold on?" and Ichabod commenced tugging violently at his line; for he evidently had caught something that offered much more than ordinary resistance to his efforts. His struggles attracted the attention of both Barton and Ralph, who came to offer him any a.s.sistance that might be necessary.

"Slow! steady!" said Barton.

"Yes, yes," shouted Ichabod: "I'll have him now. Ah! here he comes--ugh!

what in creation----" and in his astonishment he dropped his line, which began to make off rapidly from the boat.

"A turtle!" exclaimed Barton, "a mud-turtle!" seizing the line, and pulling in the turtle, which would weigh eight or ten pounds. "You have triumphed at last, Jenkins. n.o.body else has caught a turtle to-day--and so large a one, too. It is a real victory--another Saratoga," and he laughed so heartily that Ichabod showed some symptoms of getting angry.

"_Con_-found the victory, Squire," said he, "I'll tell you what, Squire, I don't handle them traps any more. If you want to see slaughter among your bears and wolves, bring 'em on: but I've got through with this cussed business, any how."

"But, without jesting, Jenkins," said Barton, "that turtle is worth more for eating than all the fish we've got here--their meat is delicious; and I prize them highly."

"If that's so, Squire," said Ichabod, "you're entirely welcome to it.

The varmint! I've seen 'em down in the settlements: but I never heerd of eating 'em, before; _I'd_ feed 'em to Senecas."

"They would be very thankful for them," said Barton. "It isn't every day they get a turtle like this."

The lines were all taken in, and as they were now sufficiently wearied, the boat was paddled towards the sh.o.r.e, where Sambo was waiting to receive the fish.

"Golly!" said the negro, grinning "who caught dis ere fellar? he! he!

he!" pointing towards the turtle.

"_I_ caught that varmint!" replied Ichabod, gravely.

"Guess ma.s.sa Jenkins let he bait die," said Sambo. "Dose fellars don't bite like pickerel, no how. How ma.s.sa Jenkins manage?"

"Manage! you black devil," said Ichabod, angrily, "I'll feed you to him, if you ask any more questions."

Ralph and Barton were very much amused at Ichabod's discomfiture, which did not at all pacify him; but the party proceeded towards the cottage, Sambo being careful to keep out of Ichabod's way; but many were the grins which he made at his expense, behind his back. Ichabod gave up the idea of ever being a fisherman; but, as he seemed to be extremely sensitive on that subject, neither Ralph nor Barton saw fit to make any particular allusion to it.