Tragic Fishing Moments 



porch overlooking the placid waters of the Potomac. 

 The wavelets, stirred to life by the gentle evening 

 breeze, twinkling like the stars of heaven, flashed back 

 the glancing light of the crescent moon, just above the 

 crest of the now shadowy hill at " the big bend," 

 where, according to Uncle Enos, the bass were rising. 



Bill's face wore a thoughtful look. He filled his 

 pipe from my pouch. I chose a cigar. I remem- 

 bered Bill's last word had left the heroic leader of the 

 little Southern force in an extremely serious predica- 

 ment. Nothing short of a miracle could save him 

 from sudden death, or quick surrender. Surrounded 

 by the enemy in blue, as Bill left him, a getaway was 

 impossible. I don't know what happened to him! It 

 isn't faulty memory on my part that shrouds the 

 hero's fate in mystery. No, no, nothing like that. 

 Bill didn't finish the tale of carnage, that's the reason. 



Came a telegram to me from Hagerstown, impera- 

 tively calling me to that ancient, quiet, and, to me, at 

 that time unattractive city, "in the mawnin,' by the first 

 train and the only train, morning, noon or night just 

 when " the bass were rising down by the big bend." 



Talk about tragic moments! If it were only pos- 

 sible to express one's real emotions in printable words 

 at such times. Again Bill's chair legs thudded down 

 upon the porch. When he had partially recovered, I 

 gently, without undue emphasis, told him I must go 

 to Hagerstown in the " mawnin'." 



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