I remember taking little Fred, my namesake and eldest son, to skate with
me one winter's afternoon on a suburban pond. He did famously for a
tyro, but we both wearied at last of his everlasting strife to maintain
the perpendicular, and I was conscious of a rush of joy when he became
completely absorbed in watching a man who was fishing for pickerel. Have
you ever fished for pickerel through a hole in the ice? If so you will
recall that it is chilly and rather dispiriting work, especially if the
fish are shy. They certainly were shy that afternoon, for the individual
in question had angled long and bagged nothing, as I gleaned from the
answers to the direct interrogatories put by my urchin during the few
minutes I stood paternally by and watched the proceedings.
"Caught anything?"
"Nop."
"Had a bite?"
"Nop."
"How long you been fishing?"
"An hour."
As I glided away light-heartedly on the delicious curves of the outer
edge, I reflected that he was evidently a persevering pot-hunter who
would not be easily discouraged, and that I could count upon his
engrossing the attention of my offspring for a considerable period.
Accordingly, I was surprised some five minutes later to observe the
fisherman (who wore no skates) shambling across the pond toward the
shore.
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