FISHING IN A FLOWER BED 



line, and as the fish swerved in its course many 

 square yards of this flowery carpet were rolled 

 up in a mass held together by entangled fibers of 

 roots. 



I threw the brake off my reel, for soon the 

 tangled flowers would put on all the drag the 

 line would bear. It was impossible and would 

 have been useless to follow the fish. Already the 

 canoe was in the tiny, octopus-like clutches of the 

 flowery pest, held like Gulliver by a thousand 

 Lilliputian threads. We watched the swaying 

 masses that told of the tarpon's course and were 

 vigilant lest we miss a sight of the coruscating 

 creature as it burst through the flowers. The 

 play lasted longer than we could reasonably have 

 hoped, but the end came at last with the parting 

 of the line. There was silence for a moment and 

 then I asked: 



"Shall we try it again? I have another line." 



And the Girl replied: "I'd rather keep the 

 memory of what I have seen. Another act 

 couldn't be as beautiful!" 



While we had been busy with the tarpon a 

 breeze from the south had sprung up, pressing 

 the mass of flowers against the northern bank. 



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