Tragic Fishing Moments 



Will Dilg, Sam Spicer, VanCampen Heilner, and 

 some others we all know more or less; or ascended 

 by the process of evolution from some ancestral 

 persecutor of the finny tribe common to the fish 

 hawk, the kingfisher and some others of like stripe 

 whom we have all admired and envied on occasions. 



By the time I had reached the glorious age of sev- 

 enteen I was equipped with a nine-foot jointed rod, 

 reel, linen line and Cincinnati bass hooks. These 

 deadly weapons were supplemented on all occasions 

 by lots of creek minnows, which thrived well but not 

 numerously in the big spring branch on my grand- 

 father's plantation in the Shenandoah Valley, in 

 Virginia, where I was raised. The south branch of 

 the Shenandoah River is formed by the confluence of 

 three smaller streams, known as North, Middle and 

 South rivers. It was in the last-named stream, which 

 works its arduous way along the foothills of the Blue 

 Ridge Mountains, that most of my fishing was done, 

 for there the conditions were ideal. The water was 

 clear and cold. There were many riffles and swift 

 chutes, and between them deep pools or stretches of 

 quiet water. 



My brother Bill and I fished together. Most of 

 the time we waded, floating the live minnows down 

 with the current to the ledges and pockets ahead of 

 us. At other times, when the days were hot, we 

 fished from the bank, in deeper water, and if the 



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