An Evening's Fishing. 



There are but few of us old veterans of the field and stream 

 that have not hundreds of pleasant reminiscences of our days 

 afield carefully stored away for future reference ; and when we 

 are sick, or want to throw business cares off our mind, we get a 

 good, comfortable position, close our eyes to shut out the world, 

 and live these old bygones over again. 



"It is not all of hunting to hunt, 

 Nor all of fishing to fish." 



Every pleasant day's shooting or fishing is lived over and 

 over again by the true lover of these sports, and enjoyed with 

 the same zest every time. 



I remember an evening's sport which I had with a black 

 bass years ago, on the Maquoketa River, at Hopkinton, Iowa, 

 which stands out as boldly in memory as though it occurred 

 but yesterday. I was filling a professional appointment in 

 the city, and during my stay took meals at Charley Colyer's res- 

 taurant. On coming out from dinner one day I noticed a quan- 

 tity of spoon-hooks displayed in the showcase, and I inquired 

 if he had any sale for them. 



"The fishing here is not very good," he replied, "and 

 there is probably not a person in the place that knows how to 

 use a spoon-hook." 



I told him I would hitch up my horse after supper, and he 

 and I would drive down by the mill and try some of his spoon- 

 hooks. The sun, half an hour high, found us on the banks of the 

 stream, with my tackle brought out and got ready. It consisted 

 of a long, limber Mississippi cane, plain cotton chalk line, tea 

 lead sinker, and one of those aforementioned spoon-hooks. The 

 sun had just reached the top of the hill in the west ; the shadows 

 of the big cottonwoods on the opposite shore were begin- 

 ning to creep to the edge of the stream ; the chilly breath of a 

 fall evening was beginning to be felt by the winged insects 

 hovering over the stream, causing them to drop benumbed to 

 the water. The dace, shiners and small bass were on the watch 



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