In Northern Woods. 



took 150 feet of line before I could check him. It was his last 

 long run, and as I reeled him in I felt sure of him, and then 

 is when I came near losing him. I was standing on the apron 

 near the gate and when he got within a few feet of me he made 

 a dash under the apron. I succeeded in checking him, and as 

 he came slowly in my eyes eagerly followed the line down into 

 the depths and soon I saw his glistening sides in the light. 

 Foot by foot I took up the line, only to lose it again in another 

 spurt ; but it was a short one and soon I had him at my feet, 

 panting but game to the last. What a beauty he was ! and 

 what a battle he put up ! The memory of that fight and con- 

 quest is worth more to me than the cost of the whole trip. 



The sun was well down the western horizon as I reeled up 

 my line, put away the tackle and climbed the hill, with my 

 prize, through the woods. When I reached the top of the hill 

 I stood under the big trees and looked back across the valley 

 toward Pilot Mound. The hillsides of northern Iowa and 

 southern Minnesota are superlatively beautiful in October, 

 when the forest puts on its autumnal garb. The beauties of 

 that October evening will ever remain one of memory's most 

 beautiful pictures. The bright sun in the western horizon 

 shedding its placid light on the autumn tinted foliage ; the 

 creek winding away to the south like a silver ribbon ; the clear, 

 pure air ; the whispering breeze ; the falling leaves ; the chatter- 

 ing squirrel as he gathered his winter store, and the drumming 

 of a pheasant across the ravine all these sights and sounds 

 belong to the woods, and the man who does not love them is to 

 be pitied. Some one has called the autumn days the saddest 

 of the year; but in my judgment he is wrong and I believe all 

 lovers of rod and gun will agree with me. 



Sports Afield. 



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