Tragic Fishing Moments 



little bigger, until he would be big enough to really 

 catch a bass for himself. His mother knew not 

 whether to second this ambition very strongly, and 

 mustered as Exhibit A all the villlage ne'er-do-wells 

 as a dire illustration of the fate that overtakes those 

 who spend any portion at all of their time in hunting 

 and fishing. The defense had to name all the illus- 

 trious Teddies and Grovers to prove that in rare in- 

 stances the sportsman is not preordained to ignominy, 

 and womanlike, she was still unconvinced. But Bob's 

 bent was not thereby reduced to the extent of a single 

 little kink. He still dreamed of catching a bass. 



Since the opening of the Tragic Moments series 

 the tubers in the Murphy barrel ran low, and Dad was 

 called upon to replenish the supply. Far be it from 

 me to pursue the lowly garden hackle in his hidden 

 ways, but when pursuing potatoes one comes across 

 him in considerable numbers, may it not be that the 

 powers intend for him to make use thereof? Be that 

 as it may, I was tempted, and forthwith gathered sev- 

 eral of him into one old tomato can with intent. 



The next day being Sunday, to make good mat- 

 ters bad, I gathered up the family, Mother and all, 

 and we betook ourselves into our canoe and up the 

 river to a quiet little cove, seeking sunfish. Mother 

 sat in the bow of the canoe, reading a magazine, while 

 Bob and I performed the ceremony of wetting the 

 line. Bob's tackle consisted of a stout linen carpet 



20 



