A Real Sportsman 



witnessed. I had just taken him into the boat and was 

 looking at him in admiration in the failing light of a 

 very pretty sunset. The sun had dropped behind the 

 pine fringed shores of beautiful Balsam Lake whose 

 waters had now changed from the blue green hues of a 

 few minutes before, to purple, red and gold. The last 

 tiny riffle had died away and the lake lay placid and 

 stilled. A big blue heron sailed lazily overhead and 

 the plaintive call of a distant loon was the only sound 

 that broke the quietude of this entrancing scene. I 

 again held up the fish and started to remove the hooks. 



The lure I was using was a plug with three gangs 

 of hooks appended. One gang was firmly set in his 

 great mouth, one hook of the second gang had pierced 

 his big glistening eye and two hooks of the third gang 

 were sunken deeply into his body. As I removed with 

 difficulty the last mentioned hooks the blood trickled 

 slowly down his beautiful green side. I looked at the 

 wounds these hooks had made and thought of the great 

 and unequal struggle this fish had so nobly waged for 

 his life, against such overwhelming odds. I thought 

 of the articles I had read on the use of gangs of hooks. 

 I thought of the many pleasant hours that I had spent 

 with these fish. I thought of the great infinite law 

 which bestows unto man the power over all creatures 

 of the earth and of the advantage I had taken over 

 this glorious fighter. 



No pangs at loss of pet tackle or escape of great 

 33 



