I was very small when I began to fish,—so small and young that I cannot remember when it was. In fact, my first fishing comes to me now, not as a distant recollection, but only as a vague impression of a far-off world where a little boy once lived and roamed. I am quite sure that I first dropped my line into the little muddy pool just behind our garden fence. I am sure, too, that this line was twisted by my mother’s hands from of thread, and the hook was nothing but a bended pin. I faintly recall my protests that a real fish-line and hook bought at the store would catch more fish than this homemade tackle that my kind mother twisted out of thread to save the expense; but all my protests went for . I was told that the ones she made were just as good as the others, and that I must take them or go without. All that to me of those first 166fishing-days is the faint impression of a little child sitting on an old log back of the cheese-house, his bare feet just the top of the little pool, holding a fish-pole in his hands, and looking in breathless at the point where the line was lost in the muddy stream.  
More distinctly do I remember a later time, when I had grown old enough to go down the road to the little bridge, and to have a real fish-line and a sharp barbed hook which my brother brought me from the store. I go out on the end of the and throw my line close up to the stone abutments in the dark shadow where the water lies deep and still. The stream is the same fitful that comes down through the meadow behind the garden-fence; but here it seems to stop and linger for awhile under the protecting shadows of the little wooden bridge. I have no doubt that the spot is very deep,—quite over my head,—and with heart I sit and wait for some kind fish to take my baited hook. I learned later that I could clear under the bridge by pulling my trousers up above my knees; but this was after I had sat and fished. True, my older brothers had always told me that there was nothing but minnows in the muddy pool; but how did they know? Their eyes could see no farther into the unknown stream than mine.
 
I do not remember a single fish either behind the cheese-house or under the bridge; but I do remember the little bare-legged boy, with torn straw hat, waiting patiently as he held his pole above the pool, and wondering at the of the fish. If I could only have seen to the bottom of the stream, no doubt I should have known there were no fishes there for me to catch; but as I could not see, I was sure that if I sat quite still and kept my line well up to the abutment of the bridge, the fishes would surely come swimming up eager to get caught.
 
Many a time I was certain that the fishes were just going to bite my hook; but at the most critical moment some stupid farmer would drive his noisy at full speed upon the sounding bridge, and as like as not shout to me, and of course drive all the fishes off. Or, even worse, the driver would halt his team just before he reached the 168little bridge, get down from the high wagon seat, unrein his horses, and drive them down the sloping bank to the edge of the bridge to get a drink. The stupid horses would push their long noses clear up under the bridge, close to the stone abutment where I had cast my line, clear down almost to the bottom of the pool, and drink and drink until they were fairly bursting with water, and finally they would stamp their feet, and splash through to the other side, pulling along the great wagon-wheels after them. Of course it was a waste of time to sit and fish after a like this. But although I caught no fish, still day after day I would go back to the end of the planks and throw my baited hook into the pool, and sit and blink in the sun and wait for the fish to bite.
 
But when I grew older I gave my fishing-tackle to my younger brothers and let them sit on the old log and the end of the bridge where I had watched so long, and, turning my back in scorn upon the little stream, sought deeper waters farther on.
 
I followed my older brother up to the dam, and sat down in the shade of the overhanging -trees, and cast my line over the bank into the deep water, which was surely filled with fish. Perhaps in those days it was not the fish alone, but the idea of fishing. It was the great pond, which seemed so wide and deep, and which spread out like glass before my eyes. It was the big willow-trees that stood in a row just by the water’s edge, with their branches hanging almost to the ground, and casting their cool delicious shade over the short grass where we sat and fished; and then the blue sky above,—the sky which we did not know or understand, or really think about, but somehow felt, with that sense of freedom that always comes with the open sky. Surely, to sit and fish, or to lie under the green trees and look up through their branches at the white clouds chasing each other across the clear blue heavens,—this was real, and a part of the life of the universe, and also the life of the little child.
 
How many castles we built from the changing forms of those ever-hurrying clouds, moving on and ever on until they were lost in the great unknown blue! How many dreams we dreamed, how many visions we saw,—visions 170of our manhood, our great strength, and the wonderful achievements that would some day throughout the world! And those castles and dreams and visions of our youth,—where are they now? What has blasted the glowing promises that were born of our young blood, the free air, and the endless blue heavens above? Well, what matters is whether or not the castles were ever really built? At least the dreams were a part of childhood’s life, as later dreams are a part of maturer years. And, after all, if the dreams had not been dreamed then life had not been lived.
 
But here in the great pond we sometimes caught real fish. True, we waited long and patiently, with our lines hanging listlessly in the stream. True, the fishes were never so large or so many as we hoped to catch, but such as they were we dragged them from the pond and strung them on a willow stick with the greatest glee.
 
I remember distinctly the time when some accident befell the dam............