THE WALL-EVED PIKE. 385 



Sport? Yes, we had it, and plenty of it. No sooner would 

 the hook strike the water than with a whirl and a splash a 

 Pike or Pickerel would take it; then the fun would commence. 

 Now this way and now that he would go, making the tough 

 iron-wood bend nearly to the butt; and away we would go for 

 the shore. 



Various gyrations of Mr. Pike, or Mr. Pickerel, as the 

 case might be, would detain us more or less on the way, but 

 in the end we slid him out on the pebbly shore. 



Finch nearly went crazy. When he had hooked one, he 

 would stand, legs wide apart, eyes sticking out, both arms 

 apparently all elbows, and let it play awhile. Then he 

 would start for the shore, with his pole over his shoulders, 

 dragging his fish, and finally sliding him out on the shore. 

 He would square himself in front of his victim and deliver 

 a lecture — quotations from Latin, Greek, French, Demos- 

 thenes and Cicero and other ancient heroes. The classics 

 were reviewed as he fired ancient history at the poor fish; 

 then he would extract the hook, fix his bait and go in again. 



The fish run large, several of the Pickerel tipping the 

 beam at ten to twelve pounds each, and the Pike averaging 

 some four pounds. We returned a good many of them to 

 the water for we had all we could use within a few minutes 

 after we commenced fishing. 



We fished some three hours and took home seventy-five 

 Pike only. That afternoon will long be remembered by all 

 of us — as one of the most enjoyable of our lives. 

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