Just Wait, Mr. Bass 



dusty, a day's drive north of Minneapolis, and inquir- 

 ing for a good bass lake. Everyone told us the same 

 story : " Yes, a week ago they were biting fine, but 

 not now. It's too hot now. No, they won't take 

 anything but frogs or minnows, if they bite at all." 

 Discouraging, but still we did not give up all hope ; 

 although my dream of the Truly Great Bass that was 

 to take my lure faded in the face of these assurances. 

 It was hot, no doubt about it. Night found us in a 

 forest of pines and birches, by the side of a little 

 lake evidently not heavily fished. It was a very ir- 

 regular lake, so many little bays, and such a lot of 

 lilies and rushes; about three miles across, clear and 

 very deep. Darkness was upon us, and camp was 

 quickly made. We had not realized how very tired 

 we were, and of course we wanted to be ready to 

 fish at the first suggestion of day. But there was 

 neither sleep nor rest. You see we knew no more 

 about mosquitoes than we did about bass. I will not 

 attempt to describe this part of our adventure. It 

 will not be necessary to tell some of you about it. 

 The rest would not understand. However, we were 

 glad to be up before the day was breaking, and in the 

 smoke of the camp fire ate our breakfast and looked 

 the tackle over. We were certainly dubious about 

 those plugs. They did not appeal to us as did the 

 daintier bugs and flies, but as we had not yet learned 

 to handle the fly rod, our choice was limited. So 



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