> Why Ponies Go Fishing
>  by RenaissanceBrony
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> An Important Lesson in Generosity
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	It’s an ordinary Spring morning in Central Park. The pegasus ponies are preparing the first of several days of rain, putting an end to the past couple weeks’ sunny skies. I’m not dressed for the rain, but that’s my own fault. I should’ve checked the schedule before I left this morning.

The sound of rustling leaves draws my attention skyward as the first few droplets fall upon the trees. Soon the rainfall increases, and the sound grows to a gentle shhhh, as if the forest itself demanded calm and quiet.

The reservoir before me had the opposite reaction. The clear surface, which only seconds earlier had held an unblemished reflection of the heavy grey clouds, was now being agitated by millions of raindrops seeking to meet their own reflection.

To me, this weather is perfect. As long as it’s not too cold, I don’t mind getting wet. Luckily, today it isn’t cold at all. And the best part about the rain is what it does to the fish! I’ve never been entirely sure why… Maybe they think the raindrops are bugs landing on the surface of the water. Maybe they prefer to avoid direct sunlight. I don’t know. But when it rains, the fish practically swarm your bait as soon as you drop it into the water.

Whatever the reason, more fish is a plus in my books. “The more fish, the merrier!” my father used to say. Now I say it too.

Somehow, it seemed like nopony paid us any mind when we used to sit by the lakeside, rods in our hooves, glass bowls full of water set out on the dirt surrounding us, ready to be filled with fish. Maybe I was just too wrapped up in fishing and talking to notice the strange looks ponies gave us, or maybe I was just too young to realize what we were doing was “unusual”.

You don’t see many fisherponies nowadays. In fact, it’s been decades since most ponies have even heard of such a thing. I learned the trade from my father, and he learned it from his father, and so on. Most fishing families from way back then switched over to some other business.

See, ponies don’t really have any need for fish. We don’t eat them. And there’s not much else we can do with them besides keep them as pets.

Nevertheless, this is how I spend my days. Sitting by the lakeside in Central Park, waiting for a fish to bite. It usually takes about twenty minutes or so, so it’s a lot of waiting. That’s one of the nice things about retirement, though. I’ve got all the time in the world to just wait. No rush, no worry, I can just sit here and watch all the young, busy ponies bustle past.

Usually there are plenty of ponies to watch, but on rainy days like this one they mostly prefer to stay inside. I’ll see a passerby once in a while, but it’s still far less busy than when the skies are clear.

You might be wondering what I do with the fish that I catch. Well, I do the same thing that my father did, of course!

“Care for a fish?” I ask, having noticed a light green mare with a matching green suit and umbrella trotting past me.

“Um, no thanks.” She dismisses my offer with a slightly confused look.

“Are you sure? It’s free!” I chirp. But she’s already passed me and she doesn’t bother answering a second time.

That’s usually how it goes. Nopony has a need for fish anymore.

Soon I notice another pony approaching. It’s a young filly with saddlebags and no umbrella. Her mane is drenched, causing its stripes of pink and red to stick to her face. She’s looking at the ground as she walks with a frown on her face. At the edges of her mouth I can make out three yellow freckles on each side of her face.

“You know, young’un, A fish’ll turn that frown upside down!” I beam at her, apparently startling her enough that she jumps a little bit, stopping in place. She must not have noticed that anyone was nearby. Her eyes go wide in surprise and she quickly looks between me, my fishing rod, and the glass bowl with a fish inside that I’m holding in my outstretched hoof.

I see a shimmer of curiosity cross her countenance, but it was soon replaced by a nervous, almost scared look. She turns slightly so that her path leads her around me instead of past me. Apparently she has decided to ignore me as she canters past. I see her glance sideways a couple times  to take a few more looks at my fishing equipment.

I smile at her. “I’ll be here if you change your mind!” She just keeps walking, having made it safely past me. I imagine she’s staring straight ahead, fighting the urge to look back again.

And so I am left alone with my thoughts, and my fish.


* * *


During the afternoon of that same day, not much has changed. The rain is still falling. I’m still fishing. The only real differences are that several more of my glass bowls have fish in them, and I’m munching on some carrots I brought for a late lunch.

I’ve offered fish to every pony that’s come my way. A lot of ponies I recognize, since they walk past almost every day, but some are newcomers. None of them were interested in my fish.

I don’t know how my father did it. He’d be hoofing fish out left and right, and everypony was more than happy to accept them. Maybe he was just more charismatic than me. Maybe the times are changing. I’m not sure. Either way, I know--

“Uh, mister?” a voice behind me asks cautiously. As I turn to face it, I recognize the source as the same young filly that had been scared of me just this morning.

“Oh hello there, young’un! How has your life been between this morning and now? I hope you didn’t look that nervous the entire time!” I laugh heartily at my own joke, or, I sort of laugh and wheeze at the same time, which is as hearty as it gets nowadays. My laugh isn’t quite what it used to be.

The filly doesn’t seem to find much humor in it, and a hint of anger gets mixed in with the nervous look on her face.

Realizing my mistake, I quickly stop laughing and clear my throat. “What I meant to say was, what brings you back here?” Her anger fades and I sense that her nervousness subsides a little bit as she begins to speak.

“I wanted to ask what you were doing.” I notice that her voice is deeper than most fillies’, as if she was forcing it to be uncomfortably low so she could sound tougher.

“Why, I’m fishing of course!” In response to my broad smile she gives me a blank, vaguely confused look.

“You mean,” she hesitates for a second, thinking. “You’re pullin’ fish outta the water with that thing?” She points at the fishing rod that I’ve gripped in my left forehoof.

“That’s absolutely right!”

“And then,” another hesitation. “You just put ‘em in those glass bowls full o’ water?”

“Correct again, young’un!” I declare. Then she looks at me, clearly expecting an explanation, but I’m having too much fun to just give up all the answers without being asked. This is the most I’ve talked to anypony all day!

After a few seconds, she finally asks, “How come?”

“To give to ponies, remember? I tried to give you one this morning.”

“Oh… right.” When I remind her of what happened earlier, she seems ashamed. She lowers her gaze and flicks her tail to the side to cover her flank. That’s when I notice that she lacks a cutie mark.

“Not to worry, though!” I grin, trying to coax her out of her defensive stance. “The offer still stands. If you want a fish, you get a fish!” I hold out a glass bowl with a fish inside. The filly looks up at me, but her head only sinks lower, as if she is expecting some sort of abuse or insult. “Say… what’s wrong?” I ask acutely, wiping the smile from my face.

“What’re ya talkin’ about?” She suddenly stands up defiantly, glaring at me. “Nothing’s wrong!”

I eye her suspiciously to show my disbelief. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yeah” she snarls, almost like it’s a threat.

And just then, I feel a sharp tug on my fishing pole. Before I even turn to face the water, I instinctively yank it in the opposite direction to ensure that the hook is set. I take a second to gently place the bowl I’m holding on the ground, then quick as a whip I snap my hoof to the reel and start to spin it.

The fish doesn’t put up much of a fight, and I land it in less than a minute. Most of the fish in Central Park are rather small and easy to reel in. Even for an old geezer like me.

I release the reel and grab the fish with my free hoof, then rest the rod against my hind leg to free my other hoof. As the fish wiggles around like it’s trying to swim through the air, I take the hook out of its lip and drop it into an empty water-bowl. It breaks the surface with a relatively graceful splash, and then seems content to swim in circles, enjoying the view from its new home. Inspecting the hook, I find that my bait is still secure, so I cast the line out once more.

With the brief period of excitement out of the way, my thoughts return to the curious filly. Looking over my shoulder, I notice her staring in awe at the newly caught fish. Her various expressions of confusion, anger, fear, and defiance are nowhere to be seen. At the moment, she is a perfect example of childlike wonder.

I wait a minute for her to say something, but she holds her silence. Apparently she’s happy just watching the fish. At least she seems to be more comfortable now. Not so nervous.

I wait another minute or two, looking out upon the surface of the lake. The rain makes such wonderful patterns, it makes me wonder how so many ponies simply walk past it, not even stopping for a second to admire the view.

Suddenly, I find myself remembering a time very similar to this one. It was a rainy day, and I was here with my father. I had reached an age where I was starting to question everything. Why this, and why that. How does this happen? Where did that come from?

So of course one day I asked him why we always spent so much of our time gathering fish if only to give them all away and keep none for ourselves. And he answered with a question of his own. He asked me why we would keep all of these fish if we had no need for them. He pointed out that we had nothing better to do with them than give them away.

That satisfied me temporarily, but then I realized that it didn’t explain why we caught them in the first place. When I put that question to him, at first all he did was laugh. It was not a mean laugh, neither derisive nor harsh. It was a contagious laugh that brought joy to any who heard it. I think that had something to do with his special talent, but in my old age I can’t quite remember.

Anyway, when his laughter subsided, he put his arm around me and said that he had a story to tell me. He said that the story was true, and that it had been passed down through every generation of our family, so it was my duty to remember it well.

And that was the day I learned why I am a fisherpony.

It has been a long time since I have thought back to that day. It has always brought joy to my heart. However, now it brings a small sense of sorrow, too. For I am far beyond the point in my life where I could have children of my own. I’m afraid my family’s line of fisherponies ends with me.

With my train of thought completed, I sit back to wait for another bite. The filly is still here, only now she’s looking at the water, waiting patiently for another good show.

I look at her, taking note of her interest. I look at my fishing rod, lazily suspending the thin, nearly transparent line. Then an idea strikes me.

“It’s bullies, isn’t it?” I declare, rather than ask. Once again, I seem to have alarmed her. Not just by breaking the silence, though. I suspect that the accuracy of my unexpected guess has surprised her as well.

“I… I-I don’t know what ya mean,” she tells me with a rather unconvincing poker face.

“You know, young’un, the term ‘blank flank’ has been around since before I was a little little pony. I’d be willing to bet that ponies have gotten teased for not having a cutie mark since the dawn of time.”

“I don’t get teased! Nopony would have da guts to mess with me!” She stands up, stretching to make herself taller than I am in my seated position.

I only smile. “Oh, come now. Everypony gets teased until they find their true calling. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” She merely puffs her chest out defiantly in response. “Alright, well whether or not you’re gonna admit it to me, I can see what’s goin’ on with you. The way you hide your flank with your tail, and how you’re afraid of ponies that are bigger than you… They’re dead giveaways. In fact, now that I think of it, what brings you way out here anyways? Surely this windy path through Central Park isn’t the fastest way to school.”

For a moment she only glares at me. One last gleam of defiance flashes in her eyes, but it soon fades. Instead she sits down with a defeated expression. Without making eye contact, she tells me, “I’m avoiding Bandy Words’s house.”

“And why is that?”

“Him and Dust Up are always calling me names an’ tryin’ to pick fights,” she huffs, kicking a pebble out of the dirt.

“Sounds like bullying hasn’t changed much since my day. You know, I was once in the same position that you’re in right now. Luckily, I remembered something my father had told me once, and it fixed everything right up!”

“I already tried talkin’ to my folks about it,” she says sullenly. “Their advice wasn’t much help.”

“Ah, but you haven’t tried talking to me about it!” I winked. “Or, at least not until today.” This earns me another vaguely confused look from the young filly.

“Why would I ask you? I don’t even know you.”

“That’s a valid point,” I agree. “Hello, my name is Sunken Bait Junior.” I hold out my hoof for a shake. “You can call my Mr. Junior for short.”

The filly looks at my hoof, grimacing slightly as she notices the leftover fish-slime that always builds up while fishing. Nonetheless, she accepts my offered hoof. “I’m Babs Seed. My friends call me Babs.” She lets go of my hoof. “Everypony else calls my Blank Seed,” she muttered dejectedly.

“Well I’m certainly not going to call you that,” I laugh. “So how about we consider ourselves friends so I can call you Babs?”

“Sure, Mr. Junior,” she smiles. I think that’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen from her all day!

“Luckily for you,” I begin, “since we’re friends, that means I can help you out.”

“I’ve already got friends to help me,” she complains. “It’s just sometimes I gotta walk to school by myself. What’re you gonna do? Walk me to school or somethin’?”

“Oh, goodness no!” I snortle. (A combination a a snort and a chuckle, obviously) “I’m going to help you out by giving you information.”

She looks at me suspiciously. “What kinda information?”

“The kind that comes in the form of a story.”

“Umm… okay,” she replies. This is the part where she’s supposed to lie down with her head propped up in her hooves and her feet kicking around in the air behind her. Instead of assuming a proper story-receiving position, though, she only looks at me as if she’s somewhat concerned for my mental stability. She’s obviously new to this whole storytelling thing. Nevertheless, I decide to begin.

“This is a story passed down from my father, who heard it from his father, who heard it from his father, who heard it from his father, who read about it in a journal kept by his father’s father’s father.” She looks lost already. To be fair, though, I can never remember how many generations there have been before me, so I just made that part up.

“So rest assured that this story is the absolute truth,” I declare with finality. And now that the intro is out of the way, it’s time for the real story to start.

“Long ago, when Manehattan was just a settlement on the outskirts of Equestria, our nation was at war with the griffins. ‘Twas a rather violent conflict, not particularly enjoyed by either side. And get this! The whole affair was over some tiny insult Celestia had accidentally made about the Griffin King’s feathers! I don’t remember the details, but somehow Celestia made a little slip-up during a diplomatic meeting, and it broke out into a transcontinental war.”

“For many years, Celestia did everything she could to try to apologize to the King, but some Griffin Code of Honor meant that the war could not be ended that easily. And it turned out to be my great-great-great-great-really-great-grandfather who solved the problem. Our family used to be inventors and engineers before we became fisherponies. Back then the sport of fishing didn’t even exist yet!”

“One day, my ancestor, who we’ll call Mr. Senior, was trying to retrieve a small trinket that had fallen into the ocean. He had fashioned a long rod with a string attached at one end, and put a hook on the end of the string. He was using it to reach into the water and try to hook the trinket so he could bring it back up. At that very moment, a series of fantastic coincidences began.”

“First, the griffins decided to attack Manehatten, which had previously not been involved in the war. Second, Mr. Senior’s hook latched onto the trinket resting on the sand at the bottom of the ocean. Third, one of the many griffin aerial fighters, upon reaching Manehattan, swooped right at Mr. Senior. Fourth, Mr. Senior turned to run away, bringing his trinket-hooking tool with him. Fifth, as the hooked trinket was pulled to the surface of the water, its shininess attracted the attention of a solitary fish. Sixth, this fish followed the trinket, jumping out of the water, right into the swooping griffin’s mouth. Seventh, and last, the griffin screeched to a stop right in front of the awe-struck Mr. Senior, happily munching on the fish.”

“It turned out that all the griffins needed was a large enough peace offering, and they would be more than happy to stop fighting. So Celestia ordered the construction of factories to mass-produce Mr. Senior’s fishing pole. This brought all kinds of ponies to Manehattan, giving it the kick it needed to begin to develop into a full-blown city. Soon there were so many fisherponies along the shore that you couldn’t even find a place to stand. Celestia paid everypony for the fish they caught, and a massive stockpile was formed to give to the griffins. It was so massive that the Griffin King declared the war officially over as soon as he laid eyes on it. And so my ancestor’s fishing pole brought peace to Equestria.”

“For a while, until the griffins all moved back to their homeland, it was common to see ponies fishing for some tasty treats to give to their griffin friends. Once the griffins were gone, though, there wasn’t much use for fishing anymore. Over the years, ponies began to forget about it. Now my family is one of the only fisherpony families in all of Equestria.”

“Though the popularity of fishing may have died out, the lesson it taught ponies about generosity lives to this day.” I finish the story with a serene smile. I’m happy to see that Babs seems a lot more interested in it by the end than when it had started.

“Wow,” she breathes. “I didn’t even know Equestria had ever been at war.”

“I bet you didn’t know griffins liked fish so much either. That’s really the more important part of the story,” I say very seriously.

“Wait,” she commands, with a suddenly confused expression. “You said something about a lesson in generosity at the end there. I think I missed it.”

“Oh, the lesson?” I ask rhetorically. “It’s really quite simple. The moral of the story is: Griffins like you a lot if you give them fish.”

“Wasn’t that story supposed to tell me something about how to deal with bullies?” Her question is really more of an accusation. I sort of sputter and make some pfft sounds to show how insulted I am.

“Weren’t you paying attention?” I ask defensively. “Assuming your bullies are griffins, all you have to do is give them fish. Problem solved!” I declare with much jubilation. “Here, give them this one.” I pass her the glass bowl containing the fish she watched me catch. She takes it without protest.

“And what if they aren’t?”

“Well then I can’t really help you with that.”

“How about ya tell me what you did when you were being bullied by other ponies?”

“Ha!” I laugh. In case that wasn’t clear. “What did I do? What did I do? I gave them fish!” I shout due to overwhelming excitement.

“But they weren’t, uh, griffins? Were they?” She is clearly growing more baffled by the second.

“No, don’t be silly,” I scoff. “I give fish to everypony.”

“Did it work?”

“Did what work?”

“Giving fish to the bullies. Did they stop bothering you?”

“Nah. They kept at it until I got my cutie mark.”

“Oh.” She seems a little upset about this whole conversation. I think she expected me to offer some sort of comfort to her at this point. But when I didn’t, she spoke up again. “Alright Mr. Junior. I’m gonna head home now. My parents are prob’ly wondering why I’m not back yet.”

“Ah, yes. Rightly so,” I respond, returning my attention to the lake in front of me.

“Um… thanks for the fish. and the story.” She waits, as if making up her mind about something. “Yeah. Bye.”

And with that she turns and heads down the same path she came from this morning. I somehow get a sense of finality from her exit. I feel as if that might be the last I’ll ever see of her. But if it is, It’s not all bad. At least I told her my story. Now somepony out there knows of the fisherponies. I can practically feel my father patting me on the back, and laughing with that wonderful laugh of his, telling me he’s proud of me. I will never forget Babs Seed. She was the filly who helped me honor my father’s wishes. Much more importantly, though…

I gave her a fish.

The End.