A Dive for a Big Fellow 



Gentle reader, here is a black bass story from the 

 pen of Edward C. Kemper, of Washington, D. C. 

 Brother Kemper and I have formed a warm friend- 

 ship through the mails, and I know when I meet 

 my Virginia friend I am going to love him. There 

 is a fellowship among the angling fraternity that is 

 past understanding to those outside the sacred circle, 

 and my friend Kemper belongs to the elect. His 

 story deals with a stream which ran through his 

 grandfather's plantation in the Shenandoah Valley. 

 This self-same grandfather, by the way, commanded 

 one of the brigades that General Pickett led in his 

 immortal charge at Gettysburg. I have named one 

 of the feather minnows " Kemper's Charge," and 

 advise " E. C." to try it on that old ancient that got 

 away. Who knows, he may be lingering about in 

 that self -same stream, even though this Tragic Mo- 

 ment deals with a long ago. 



It is not possible to write concerning one's own 

 most tragic fishing moment without the frequent use 

 of the personal pronoun. With this apology allow 

 me to begin at the beginning: I am sure that I was 

 a born fisherman. Mind you, I do not say " angler," 

 the refined product, but "fisherman," a human being 

 descended from an ancestor common to Ike Walton, 



67 



