THE BOOK OF THE PIKE 



Pickerel may not be "good eating," "are too full of 

 bones," "are too soft," are too this, that, and the other; 

 but as I look back over the years, the memory of that 

 morning meal above the mosquito-infested sedge 

 stands out as one of the most savory and satisfactory. 

 Whatever pickerel flesh may be like when taken from 

 warm water, from cold lakes and once-were-trout 

 streams it is sweet and savory. (Perhaps not a little 

 depends upon the outdoor appetite, too.) 



Strange what tricks memory plays with facts. As I 

 sit here at my desk arranging the matter for "The Book 

 of the Pike," with a "cord" of notebooks and refer- 

 ence works galore on the shelves behind me, one of the 

 most pleasant memories is that of the mosquito- 

 infested lake. The rush of the hooked fish thrills my 

 arm yet, as it did that morning so long ago after months 

 of piscatorial abstemiousness. Even the memory of 

 that cloud of stinging, buzzing mosquitoes is meta- 

 morphosed into a sort of glorified halo. Very far away 

 and very unreal seems the impatient anger of the 

 morning, a thing to laugh over. I could not have made 

 a better memory than He who ordained that unpleasant 

 things should sink into abeyance with the passage of 

 time, pleasant happenings alone remaining permanent. 

 And now abide these three — the thrill of battle, the 

 lift of victory, the mellow memory, and the greatest 

 of these is mellow memory. 



Remains to mention that a pickerel will take a spoon, 

 for any rapidly moving object has great attraction 

 for him. The average trolling spoon is too large for 

 this fish; the gang has too many hooks. With a treble 

 in his mouth the little fellow loses whatever pluck or 

 courage he may have had, a truth which obtains of 



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