"Yes.  sir, that 's so," went on the quiet voice; "'t was on'y a
dog sure nuff; 'twa'n't even a boy, as ye say, an' ye ast me to be
a fisher o' men.  But I haint had no chance for that, somehow;
mebbe I wa'n't fit for 't.  I 'm on'y jest a poor old fisherman,
Fishin' Jimmy, ye know, sir.  Ye useter call me James--no one else
ever done it.  On'y a dog?  But he wa'n't jest a common dog, sir;
he was a fishin' dog.  I never seed a man love fishin' mor 'n
Dash."  The dog was in the room, and heard his name.  Stealing to
the bedside, he put a cold nose into the cold hand of his old
friend, and no one had the heart to take him away.  The touch
turned the current of the old man's talk for a moment, and he was
fishing again with his dog friend.  "See 'em break, Dashy!  See 'em
break!  Lots on 'em to-day, aint they?  Keep still, there 's a good
dog, while I put on a diffunt fly.  Don't ye see they 're jumpin'
at them gnats?  Aint the water jest 'live with 'em?  Aint it
shinin' an' clear an'--"  The voice faltered an instant, then went
on: "Yes, sir, I 'm comin'--I 'm glad, dreffle glad to come.  Don't
mind 'bout my leavin' my fishin'; do ye think I care 'bout that?  I
'll jest lay down my pole ahin' the alders here, an' put my lan'in'
net on the stuns, with my flies an' tackle--the boys 'll like 'em,
ye know--an' I 'll be right along.

"I mos' knowed ye was on'y a-tryin' me when ye said that 'bout how
I had n't been a fisher o' men, nor even boys, on'y a dog.  'T was
a--fishin' dog--ye know--an' ye was allers dreffle good to
fishermen,--dreffle good to--everybody; died--for 'em, did n't ye?--

"Please wait--on--the bank there, a minnit; I 'm comin' 'crost.
Water 's pretty--cold this--spring--an' the stream 's
risin'--but--I--can--do it;--don't ye mind--'bout me, sir.  I 'll
get acrost."  Once more the voice ceased, and we thought we should
not hear it again this side that stream.

But suddenly a strange light came over the thin face, the soft gray
eyes opened wide, and he cried out, with the strong voice we had so
often heard come ringing out to us across the mountain streams
above the sound of their rushing: "Here I be, sir!  It 's Fishin'
Jimmy, ye know, from Francony way; him ye useter call James when ye
come 'long the shore o' the pond an' I was a-fishin.'  I heern ye
agin, jest now--an' I--straightway--f'sook--my--nets--an'--follered--"

Had the voice ceased utterly?  No, we could catch faint, low
murmurs and the lips still moved.  But the words were not for us;
and we did not know when he reached the other bank.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Fishin' Jimmy, by Annie Trumbull Slosson
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