Pics from the Past | Gone fishing: Bend, cast and catch

Across the Bridge at Shepparton, by ‘The Bohemian’.

I came upon one of the picturesque bends for which this river is so justly famous.

The water seems deep, and I try a cast with my line, light my pipe, and wait patiently for what the “gods” may please to send me.

But, alas! My patience is not rewarded as it undoubtedly should be.

For my line calmly reposes in the depth of the stream, and the shrimps pendant thereon are undisturbed.

I move on farther down, and at last spy a deep bend where the water runs somewhat thicker, and the banks admirably adapted, from the nature of the soil, to suit the taste of the finny tribe.

So here goes for another cast, and now I proceed to cut up some tobacco.

For I have invariably noticed that if fish intend biting at all, it is when you are filling your pipe they will, out of sheer irreverence, make a point of doing so.

And it was so in this instance.

For away goes my line, taut to the rod, and I am met with a good steady resistance from my victim.

And as I bring him to the bank I have visions of a ten-pound cod or five-pound perch.

When, to my disgust, I find my captive to be one of the pests of the river, a large turtle.

These reptiles abound in the Goulburn, and are most destructive to fish.

Living as they do upon the spawn of every description of the perch family, and thereby destroying millions every season.

This river is naturally suited, owing to the purity of its water and the varied nature of the soil, to be one of the best fishing streams in the colony.

But such will never be the case while the turtle is allowed to increase and multiply.

I would have a royalty granted for the capture of every one of their snake-like heads.

And now there is a gentle oscillation of my line again — a gentle sort of shaking, which the golden perch is apt to indulge in before making his final rush at the bait.

The rush comes.

I am prepared for him, and strike quickly.

Gallantly he fights, trying to make for a snag, which I see as well as he does.

I am determined that he shall not reach that bourne of safety.

One more desperate plunge he makes when near the bank.

But it is the last effort of a gallant fish, and I have him struggling beside me, a four-pounder if he is an ounce — a golden perch.

A fish that, in my estimation, is fit to be put upon the table of a king.

And a noble and handsome fellow, with his golden-hued tints, now fading as his life ebbs away.

But the rain having now set in earnest, and space being precious in the Advertiser, I must conclude.

Merely adding that I trust many of your readers may speedily succeed in getting as good a fish, and having it as skilfully cooked, as my kind hostess served this one.

My first, though I trust not last, perch of the Goulburn.