Tragic Fishing Moments 



aside and sprang at him, into the water, with both 

 hands gripping at him and on him, desperately striv- 

 ing to hold him against my chest for but a second, to 

 sink some grip into his big body that would not slip. 

 He was too quick. In a trice he was gone, and there 

 I stood empty handed, up to my arms in cold water, 

 exhausted for lack of breath. It was a bitter defeat 

 administered by a worthy foe. 



What did I do then? I went ashore blazing with 

 anger. I didn't feel the wet clothes. I swore that I 

 would some day catch that bass and be revenged. 

 But I never did. 



Only a year ago, after fifteen years' absence, I 

 went back and fished from the roots of that sycamore 

 tree for perhaps the hundredth time since the great 

 victory of the biggest small-mouth I ever saw. All 

 I got of him was experience, and a strange idea 

 which formulated itself in later years, that any boy 

 of seventeen who would so instantly spring into the 

 water after escaping quarry must be a born fisher- 

 man, like an osprey or a kingfisher. 



72 



