56 It Happened in Iona

planted by water streams, yielding its fruit in due season, its leaves never fading.”

Fishing trout in those gentle waters was a pastime of great moment. The equipment was simple and practical. First came the worms dug out of the high grass behind the barn in easy supply to partly fill an old tin can. A short piece of alder served nicely as rod and a strong brown string for line, the end of which being weighted with a couple of washers or a small nut from the workbench. The book was the only item that had to be bought. Fish were on the small side but plentiful enough to fill a gad made on the spot from two small intersecting alder branches. The only woe of this pastime was the hook’s tendency to get caught in some of the river debris which served so well as a natural habitat for fish and fowl alike. Pin fish abounded in their playful mood, while older trout went streaking by as if to show them off. In places where the bank overhung the water, pockets of trout would often cluster as though to rest. With the sound of footsteps, individuals would venture out a bit to look around. Some would retreat again by simply backing in while others would make a flying U-turn and quickly disappear. Perhaps the most generous of all places along our short stream was the “deep hole” where many generations of innocent fishlings met their waterloo. Hooking a trout and landing it safely was surely one of youth’s most exciting and rewarding moments.

The bridge which over the years became enlarged and upgraded, neatly gathered the flowing waters and delivered them across the road adding lustre and bubble as they passed that way. Walking or standing under the bridge on its narrow ledges was never to be missed as one listened to the echoes and watched the even flow in semi darkness. Out in the open again the water was a mass of freshness winking in the sun and babbling as it tumbled over rocks and logs downward to its mouth. This creek that graced our front field had its origin some three miles away in the Valley. As it left our region it joined up with a half dozen like streams, all in the end depositing their generous contents into and helping shape the beautiful Mon- tague River.

A creek or stream has many lessons to teach us. Like life itself it never stands still but keeps moving on; it has many obstacles along its path but surmounts them all; it constantly gives of itself and never hoards; it remains ever fresh, ever new, ever young, it is a rock of stability in a world of constant change; it has many friends and admirers —— all of these and more just