Tragic Fishing Moment/s 



placid, slow-moving waters of the Potomac, blue in 

 the distance, but with an intervening vista of shining 

 wavelets, silver and gold tipped by the setting sun. 



I wish you could get Bill's tale as he told it to me 

 in that long ago time, of desperate strife and dare- 

 devil charge of cavaliers in dingy butternut a mere 

 handful 'gainst a host in blue. 'Twas a thrilling tale 



of a gory field, a miniature battle unsung in poem 

 and overlooked in history, waged by heroes, who, like 

 Cambronne's braves at storied Waterloo, feared death 

 less than surrender. Bill's tale was bravely told, yet 

 never finished. Just at the climax, just when Bill's 

 Southern hero swayed in the saddle, just when his 

 bullet-riddled body seemed about to sink to the en- 

 sanguined, sacred soil of Virginia, there to be trampled 

 by plunging, battle-mad steeds, Bill's flow of eloquence 

 was checked. 



" Marse Bill, Marse Bill, Unc' Enos done tole me, 

 he done tole me, t' tell you-uns th' bass was arisin' 

 down ter the big bend." 



The front legs of Bill's rush-bottomed chair in quick 

 descent bumped loudly on the porch floor. In the 

 tenseness of the moment, or perhaps, I should say, in 

 the intensity of joy at glad tidings suddenly received 



well, anyhow, Bill dropped his pipe, the burning 

 dottle making the little barefooted pickaninny, breath- 

 less bearer of the good word from Uncle Enos, hastily 

 dance back beyond the spread of it. 



62 



