Memories of the Old Bridge. 



Last year we made a short visit to my boyhood home, the 

 beautiful little town of Manchester, Iowa. 



As we glided noiselessly in an automobile over the modern 

 steel bridge that now spans the river, my thoughts wandered 

 back to other days, when the heavy farm wagons used to go 

 rattling over the loose planks of the old wooden-pile bridge. 



The new structure is beautiful and desirable, and yet the 

 old bridge of boyhood days has a warm spot in my memory 

 which can never be supplanted by the more modern structure. 

 For as a barefoot boy I trudged over it, swinging the cane pole 

 that was soon to tremble with the struggles of redhorse or bass 

 pulled out of the riffles or deep holes above the old bridge. 



Oh, those dear old bygone summer days ! As I leaned over 

 the quiet waters I saw reflected there a laughing face and 

 curly head crowned with an old battered straw hat, made from 

 oat straw and braided by mother. 



Down a little closer, and shading my eyes from the morn- 

 ing sun with a brown hand yes, there he is, the giant black 

 bass that has evaded my snare so many times. The brass wire 



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