Fishing and a Story

It seemed the river Orwell was no too polluted,
For this type of fishing it was very well suited.
To the next river, for some bait we went,
Live worms, for this job they were heaven sent.

We dug up almost a bucket full, too much for me.
"Dad, why on earth do we need this lot?" just wait and see.
Covering them with a wet Hessian sack,
On dad's motorbike we soon got back.

"By this method we get eels, a hundred and more!
But today" dad continued "we'd be lucky to get a score".
I still couldn't fathom why we needed this amount.
There must have been hundreds, but of course I didn't count,

It was very early next morning when we left the house.
Mum and sis sleeping, so we were quiet as a mouse.
To seaward end of the docks, on bikes we did go,
"The tides going out boy, so you can just row"

In about five feet of water, that I knew,
We anchored seawards when the tide ceased to flow.
We'd fish here while the tide is slack,
When we had finished, the flow will take us back.

Now I witnessed the most amazing thing,
Dad was threading worms on a green, hairy string.
He seemed to put fifty or more in a long line,
All were skewered on the hairy green twine.

Then he gathered them into a ten-inch ball,
Threaded a cord through the middle of it all.
The other end of the cord, to end of broomstick tied,
He made up two of these, I couldn't figure out, tho' I tried.

Saw me looking at him with some sadness,
As last he explained the reason for his madness.
"Eels have tiny, pointed teeth all facing to the rear,
This is how we'll catch them, make sure you're clear"

"They will try to eat those tasty worms in a bunch.
Come on lad, it's a free lunch?"
We all know, tho' in life nothing's for free,
Experience has taught that to you and me.

The eels take a bite at the bunch of worm,
No matter how they wiggle and squirm,
The hairy cotton gets caught in their teeth,
We feel them moving five foot beneath.

Gently we lift them, carefully standing,
Or roll cord on the pole when landing.
As we were to be here for quite a stay,
Dad told me the story of the house over the way.

The house was almost hidden, difficult to see.
This is the story as he told it to me.
When delivering newspapers? The name of the pub?
"Margaret Catchpole", now here's the nub...

Margaret, in the eighteenth century, had a lover.
A smuggler, but she loved no other.
He only had a quite small sailing ship,
When the coast was clear, she gave him the tip.

He was a smuggler of casks of brandy,
Never caught, tip-off was very handy.
If he saw a lighted lamp in her window,
Into unload the brandy he would go.

He got the stuff in London's city,
That's far away, more's the pity.
But the Customs and Excise had watched the beam,
They realized her lover's and Margaret's scheme.

Set a trap in Margaret's abide,
She knew lover would take the next tide.
Maggie had to warn her lover, of course,
She slipped from the house, saddled a horse.

Rode that horse throughout the dark night,
After a seventy mile ride, London in sight.
In the darkness a magnificent ride,
Got to her lover before total high tide.

That's the story to me my dad told.
What a woman, so brave and so bold.
Back to fishing, we had got quite a lot,
Dad looking forward to some in the pot.

Now I mention this method of a bunch let to dangle,
To all that I know, those who love to angle,
The method I know is similar to crabbing,
Told my my ol' man, this method was 'babbing'.

Look on the 'net, there you will see,
Maggie "horse thief" deported to Hawkbury.
She did quite well in Australia for life,
Lived there respected as the local midwife.