John Greenleaf Whittier was born near Haverhill, Mass., in 1807, and died at Hampton Falls, N.H., in 1892. His boyhood was passed on a farm, and he never received a classical education. In 1829 he edited a newspaper in Boston. In the following year he removed to Hartford, Conn., to assume a similar position. In 1836 he edited an antislavery paper in Philadelphia. In 1840 he removed to Amesbury, Mass. Mr. Whittier's parents were Friends, and he always held to the same faith. He wrote extensively both in prose and verse. As a poet, he ranked among those most highly esteemed and honored by his countrymen. "Snow Bound" is one of the longest and best of his poems.

Our bachelor uncle who lived with us was a quiet, genial man, much given to hunting and fishing; and it was one of the pleasures of our young life to accompany him on his expeditions to Great Hill, Brandy-brow Woods, the Pond, and, best of all, to the Country Brook. We were quite willing to work hard in the cornfield or the haying lot to finish the necessary day's labor in season for an afternoon stroll through the woods and along the brookside.

I remember my first fishing excursion as if it were but yesterday. I have been happy many times in my life, but never more intensely so than when I received that first fishing pole from my uncle's hand, and trudged off with him through the woods and meadows. It was a still, sweet day of early summer; the long afternoon shadows of the trees lay cool across our path; the leaves seemed greener, the flowers brighter, the birds merrier, than ever before.

My uncle, who knew by long experience where were the best haunts of pickerel, considerately placed me at the most favorable point. I threw out my line as I had so often seen others, and waited anxiously for a bite, moving the bait in rapid jerks on the surface of the water in imitation of the leap of a frog. Nothing came of it."Try again," said my uncle. Suddenly the bait sank out of sight. "Now for it," thought I; "here is a fish at last."

I made a strong pull, and brought up a tangle of weeds. Again and again I cast out my line with aching arms, and drew it back empty. I looked at my uncle appealingly. "Try once more," he said; "we fishermen must have patience."

Suddenly something tugged at my line, and swept off with it into deep water. Jerking it up, I saw a fine pickerel wriggling in the sun."Uncle!" I cried, looking back in uncontrollable excitement, "I've got a fish!" "Not yet," said my uncle. As he spoke there was a plash in the water; I caught the arrowy gleam of a scared fish shooting into the middle of the stream, my hook hung empty from the line. I had lost my prize.

We are apt to speak of the sorrows of childhood as trifles in comparison with those of grown-up people; but we may depend upon it the young folks don't agree with us. Our griefs, modified and restrained by reason, experience, and self-respect, keep the proprieties, and, if possible, avoid a scene; but the sorrow of childhood, unreasoning and all-absorbing, is a complete abandonment to the passion. The doll's nose is broken, and the world breaks up with it; the marble rolls out of sight, and the solid globe rolls off with the marble.

So, overcome with my great and bitter disappointment, I sat down on the nearest hassock, and for a time refused to be comforted, even by my uncle's assurance that there were more fish in the brook. He refitted my bait, and, putting the pole again in my hands, told me to try my luck once more.

"But remember, boy," he said, with his shrewd smile, "never brag of catching a fish until he is on dry ground. I've seen older folks doing that in more ways than one, and so making fools of themselves. It's no use to boast of anything until it's done, nor then, either, for it speaks for itself."

How often since I have been reminded of the fish that I did not catch. When I hear people boasting of a work as yet undone, and trying to anticipate the credit which belongs only to actual achievement, I call to mind that scene by the brookside, and the wise caution of my uncle in that particular instance takes the form of a proverb of universal application: "NEVER BRAG OF YOUR FISH BEFORE YOU CATCH HIM."

約翰·惠蒂爾，生于1807年，于1892年在漢普頓病逝，他的童年是在農場度過的，從沒接受過正規的教育。1829年，他在波士頓給一家報社當編輯，隨后他去了哈特福德，也是做同樣的編輯工作。1836年他在費城成立了反奴隸制的報社。1840年他去了埃姆斯伯里，惠蒂爾先生的父母是朋友，作為一名詩人，他被當地人致以最高的尊重與敬意。《雪地冰天》是他寫的最好、最長的詩之一。

我們的單身漢叔叔和我們住在一起，他是個安靜且和藹的人，興趣是狩獵和釣魚，和他一同前去山里、樹林、池塘等，是我們的一大樂趣。

我還記得我的第一次探險好像還是昨天的事，我的人生里有著許許多多的趣事。但是都沒有我從叔叔手里接過我的第一根魚竿更能讓我感到快樂。我記得那是夏天一個無風、陽光燦爛的一天。大樹的陰影投射在了我們的道路上，顯得格外的涼爽，葉子更加綠了、花兒也更加漂亮了、鳥兒的叫聲比以往更加動聽了。

我的叔叔經驗豐富，他知道哪里是捕獲小梭魚的最佳場所，他把我放在了捕小梭魚的最佳位置。我像其他釣魚的人一樣，拋出了魚線，然后焦急地等待它上鉤，我用青蛙在水上跳躍的方式，把魚餌提出水面，并快速的讓它在水面上來回的抽動，但是什么也沒有出現。“再試一次。”我的叔叔說道。突然魚漂沉入了水底。“就是現在，拉起來，”我想，“這回終于有魚了。”

我用力地把魚漂拉了回來，是一些雜草，我一次又一次地用酸痛的胳膊拋出魚餌，可每次都是無功而返。我可憐巴巴地看著我的叔叔，“再試一次，”他說道，“我們釣魚的人必須要有耐心。”

突然我感覺到有什么東西在拉我的魚線，很快，魚線沉入水底，我猛地把魚餌拉了起來，看到一條碩大的梭魚在金燦燦的陽光里擺動著尾巴。“叔叔！”我難以控制激動的情緒，大叫道，“我釣到了大魚！”“還沒呢。”我的叔叔說道。我看到這條受了驚嚇的魚像箭一般地沖進了小河里，我的魚鉤上面空了，釣到的大魚就這么跑掉了。

我們總是愿意把童年瑣事所帶來的悲傷和成年人所遭受的悲痛做比較，然而年輕人不同意我們的觀點。我們的悲痛，受到了理由、經驗還有自尊的調整和制約。但是孩童時期的悲痛是毫無理由的、完全可以化解的，這是完全摒棄激情的表現，一個玩具娃娃的鼻子壞了，就覺得這個世界拋棄她了，這種想法是很荒謬的。

為了克服我的失落感，我坐在了離我最近的跪墊上，并且拒絕別人安慰我，即使是我叔叔確信地告訴我，這小溪里還有數不清的魚也無濟于事。他重新弄了我的魚餌，并把魚竿再一次的放在了我的手上，并且跟我說，再試試運氣。

“不過，要記住，孩子，”他說道，露出了狡猾的微笑，“永遠不要在魚被拽上岸之前，炫耀自己釣到了魚。我看到過的老釣手都這么干，結果總是讓自己出丑。所以說，在一件事情做完之前就夸耀是沒有用的。”

每當我聽到有人在沒做完事就開始炫耀自己的時候，我就會想起那條我沒有釣到的魚。小溪邊的場景在我的腦海里還歷歷在目，我叔叔那次對我的教誨可以換成一句全球通用的諺語：“在抓住魚之前，不要吹噓自己釣到了魚。”