Tragic Fishing Moments 



ners and fishes, it will readily be seen that I must 

 have had some thrills. 



It happily fell to the lot of my new partner to 

 furnish me with the biggest and best thrill of them 

 all. Here he is: Folks, meet my grandson, James 

 Lowell Smith, now eleven years old. He started in at 

 eight years going alone with me into the woods and 

 has now made three trips. The first year he carried a 

 pack nine miles from our home camp to go trout fish- 

 ing. We stayed three days and came home in a 

 driving rain with nary a grouch and him whistling all 

 the way. Of course, a good sport like that should 

 have the best of tackle, so I made him a real rod. 



My years of use of fishing rods had taught me that 

 the best jointed rod was one without any joints. I, 

 therefore, had previously secured from a near-by 

 swamp a straight tamarack sapling seven and one-half 

 feet long, which I peeled, dried, stained and varnished 

 and mounted with guides, tip and reel in regular fash- 

 ion. It's some rod. This is all preliminary to the 

 main show just the setting for the " tragic moment " 

 which, in my case, was a period. 



Envision, if you will, a bright, sunny morning in late 

 July, 1918. The boy and I in a boat on one of the 

 sweet water lakes of Northern Wisconsin Butter- 

 nut Lake to be exact. A gentle fishing breeze was 

 blowing from the southwest and the water, sky and 

 party looked like fish. The lad had the rod and I the 



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