Memories of the Old Bridge. 



is dropped quietly into the water and worked down carefully 

 toward him. The world seems to hang in the balance as I 

 work the wire down toward those lazily opening and closing 

 gills. And then, bitter disappointment, just as the wire loop 

 reaches his nose, he makes a dash for midstream and is gone. 



This experience afforded splendid preparation, though on 

 a small scale, for coming events in Curlyhead's life when ideals 

 would melt away like morning mists on the old Maquoketa. 



Strange how some little event of early boyhood will go 

 with one and influence him through an entire life. 



My experience with the giant bass of the old Maquoketa 

 was a demand on my inventive genius and skill and presever- 

 ance that I had never been called upon to meet before, and 

 did more to develop in me those qualities than any other inci- 

 dent of my early life. 



For weeks I invented and tried new ways and new tackle, 

 only to meet with failure. \Yell do I remember the warm June 

 morning when success crowned my efforts. 



A heavy fog hung over the stream and the sun looked like 

 a big ball of fire as it floated in the haze above the tree tops. 

 As I approached the favorite haunt of the old bass, the fog 

 drifted away before the morning breeze. Peering into the 

 depths of the dark water I discovered my old acquaintance 

 lying under the edge of a sunken log. 



Dropping the snare in above him, I guided it slowly down 

 stream along the old log toward his nose. Never will I forget 

 the thrill of pleasure that shot through me as the brass wire 

 passed those gently fanning fins. A quick, firm jerk of the pole 

 set the snare on the bronze backed warrior, and the fight was 

 on. The pole bent in the shape of an arch as he tore through 

 the water in circles, trying to free himself from the wire. 



In one of his mad rushes the pole broke. Nothing daunted, 

 I plunged into the stream and swam after the pole, which was 

 slowly moving across the river toward a deep hole on the other 

 side. I soon overtook the pole, and I got my second thrill that 

 memorable morning when my hand grasped the broken pole 



[24] 



