Memories of the Old Bridge. 



and I found my captive still safely anchored to the other end 

 of the line. 



Swimming to shore I crawled upon the bank dragging my 

 trophy with me. To say that I was proud of my achievement 

 would be putting it mildly. 



I had glory enough for one day and stringing my bass on 

 a willow I made a short-cut for town. 



This is only one among many pleasant memories that send 

 my thoughts back to other days to early spring rambles along 

 the river in search of the first violet, and evenings spent in row- 

 ing or trolling for bass. 



How the mossy bogs did quake as I tip-toed carefully out 

 on them to reach the beautiful fragrant water lilies ! 



And then those August and September days when I fol- 

 lowed old Sport over hill and vale after prairie chickens and 

 quail. But most distinct in all these pleasant memories of the 

 old bridge and river is my capture of the big black bass. 



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