XXXII 



SISTER ELLEN'S FISH STORY 



I ALWAYS envied Sister Ellen that trip to the 

 Big Horn country. What tales she told of sage- 

 bush and prairie dogs, of mountain climbing and 

 camping out, of hunting and fishing, of narrow 

 escapes and exploits of daring ! She brought back 

 pressed forget-me-nots and alfalfa, a glass of jelly 

 made from buffalo berries, a huge pair of antlers, 

 and a dozen other souvenirs. With these to bear 

 witness, we were obliged to give credence to her 

 stories. There was one trophy whose significance 

 she was never tired of explaining. It was in the 

 form of a fish, rudely carved from a piece of pine 

 board, and duly inscribed with statistics. Here is 

 the story as she wrote it out for me. It makes 

 me long to go a-fishing. 



It is a simple matter to catch a fish. Given an 

 angler with hook and line and a fish in the water. 

 Hunger impels the fish to take the bait, and the 

 hook takes him. The angler does the rest. 



But among fishes, as among men, individuality 

 is strong and variations are infinite in number. 

 It is this personal element that keeps alive a per- 

 ennial interest in bouts piscatorial, and justifies on 

 rhetorical grounds the recital of such adventures. 

 To tell a fish story is human. Being possessed of 



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