taste, and I was quite willing to 

 concede that I might be in the 

 syncopated yellow stage of angling, 

 and, like most syncopated yellow 

 lovers, had no desire for change. 



However, fate in the guise of Bob- 

 bie, forced the education. On a cold 

 grey day with an east wind, sharp as 

 needles, I was placed in the middle 

 of a canoe, a stone was in the bow, 

 and Bert in the stern, paddling. In 

 my hands was an eight-ounce steel 

 rod with a contraption on the cork 

 handle which was called " a patent, 

 adjustable, automatic reel." On it 

 was wound two hundred feet of 

 " three-ply, double-snelled Pierce 

 peerless suprema " line finished with 

 a "ruby red" hook, two feet of 

 "gloriosa" gut, a three -dished 

 spooner, an additional "Daisy fly," 

 a "merrivale sinker" and a "none- 

 such float." If you do not under- 

 stand, it is no matter, neither did I. 



There was also a villainous looking 

 hook on a long handle, called a gaff, 

 and a stout stick to "finish him." 

 A fur coat and a foot-warmer were 

 the mollifying adjuncts. 



I was expected to go slowly pad- 



