wagged their tails with delight. They would eat from 

 her hand, and follow her all around the pond. 



One day as she was running along the bank she 

 caught her foot against something and plunged head- 

 long into the water. Instantly the fish rushed to her 

 rescue. They formed a solid mass under her and 

 held her above the water until her father ar^ved and 97 

 rescued her from her perilous position. Her life 

 was saved, and her kindness to the fish was re- 

 warded." 



NO GOOD TO CUSS. 



A short story with a big moral for Anglers was 

 delivered to us by my late friend, Doctor William P. 

 Young. 



Around the bend of the deep hole near the boat- 

 landing of the Hampshire Sportman's Club, on the 

 beautiful South branch of the Potomac, four miles 

 above Romney, West Virginia, half-a-dozen natives 

 of the neighborhood watched the long poles to which 

 were tied their toad-baited lines. The patriarch of 

 the party, a sturdy six-foot septusgenarian, wearing 

 a long white goatee of the well known "Uncle Sam" 

 pattern, with pole stuck in the soil, squatted, and 

 chawed, and watched. 



Aroused suddenly by "a big bite," he grabbed the 

 fifteen foot pole (not an inch less), that was bent 

 almost to the surface of the stream, and gave a power- 

 ful jerk. As a big bass floundered in the shallow 

 water near the shore, and broke away, we listened 

 from our point of vantage in a boat nearby, for the 

 lurid expletives which certain ( ?) city folks indulge 

 on such occasions. Without exhibiting the least 



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