Tragic Fishing Moments 



be a waste of words to tell them that the fishing (and 

 even the hatching of the little brown leghorns) is 

 due to an intense love of everything out-of-doors, 

 from birds and flowers to rocks and thunderstorms; 

 that the things so commonplace, so familiar and ordi- 

 nary to them, are to me unfailing, unfathomable 

 sources of pure delight. Therefore I welcome the 

 opportunity of telling to someone who I know will 

 be neither amused nor coldly unsympathetic, the story 

 of my most tragic fishing moment, the vivid impres- 

 sions of which will remain clear and sharp in my 

 memory as long as life lasts. 



First, let me frankly admit that I am just passing 

 through the " chrysaloid " stage of bass fishing, and 

 that this was my first bass. However, I have fought 

 a losing fight often enough that I should have acquired 

 a philosophic spirit by now, if ever I am to do so. 



For several years a dear old uncle in the East had 

 been sending me magazines filled with wonderful sto- 

 ries of the black bass. Over and over I had read them, 

 hoping and dreaming that sometime I should have 

 an opportunity to see one of these splendid beautiful 

 fighters. But bass waters are not quickly reached 

 from our part of the country, and farmers are busy 

 folks who can rarely be away from home many days 

 at a time. At last after two years of planning the 

 way seemed clear for us to take the last of June for 

 the dreamed-of trip. June I4th found us, tired and 



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