They never were any good to go fishing, but they always wanted to go, and we had to bait their hooks, and take off the fishes if they caught any, but they hardly ever did; and they talked about how sorry they were for the fishes and the worms, but they let us do all the work. And if sometimes they went hickory-nutting or chest-nutting with us, we let them help to pick up the nuts while we had to climb the trees and shake them off; but they couldn’t carry any of them home, and when we came to fences they never would climb over them for fear they would tear their dresses, and we always had to go away around until we could find bars or a gate or take down the fence; and they were afraid of cows and dogs, and tried to keep us from going anywhere, and bothered us and held us back. And then when we took them we had to be careful what we said, and could not run or walk very fast or go very far, and we always had to get back at a certain time, and couldn’t stay out after dark, or go across any water, or get into swamps or places where they could get their feet wet and catch cold. Of course they got up parties, and wanted us to go; but these were always in the houses, and we had to wear our best clothes and our shoes, and be careful not to run against a chair, or tip over the lamp, or break anything, and we had to keep still, and couldn’t go outdoors, and had to play “needle’s-eye” and “post-office” and charades and “blindman’s-buff.” Of course we had a little cake and sometimes some ice-cream, but never half enough, and we were always glad when the party was out. In fact, in our boys’ world there was no room for girls, except that we always liked to look at them and think how pretty and clean they were. CHAPTER XV FISHING 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 spools 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 trifling expense; but all my protests went for naught. 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 remains to me of those first fishing-days is the faint impression of a little child sitting on an old log back of the cheese-house, his bare feet just touching the top of the little pool, holding a fish-pole in his hands, and looking in breathless suspense at the point where the line was lost in the muddy stream.