By Hook? No, Crook 



Once there lived in Diamond Pond a great, mon- 

 strous bass. He had been hooked and lost by Bill 

 Dare, Archie Cochran, Charlie Bradford and others 

 of equal skill but less fame. 



When rowing across the Stump Cove, just below 

 the Island, one cold, blustery March day, I heard a 

 violent commotion. A terrific something was agitat- 

 ing the pond into a whirlpool. The sound of the 

 crashing was appalling. I knew not whether to flee 

 or stay and be swallowed up. Then I saw the tail 

 of a monstrous bass and all thoughts of dinosauri 

 or sea serpents fled. A moment later there came out 

 of the water the largest bass and the largest pickeref 

 I have ever seen. The bass had the pickerel locked 

 by the upper jaw, and the pickerel was just as firmly 

 fastened to the bass by the lower jaw. In this manner 

 they were lashing the surface of the pond in mortal 

 combat. The bass seemed to be getting the better of 

 the pickerel when they dived below the surface and 

 I saw them no more. 



I could hardly wait for the season to open. When 

 at last the fifteenth of June came around, no time 

 was lost in getting out to the cove. As soon as I 

 reached the lily pads below the cove I began casting 

 my favorite whip of a bustard wing Montreal stretcher 

 and a Silver Doctor dropper. In a short time I had 

 all the bass I cared to keep, but two hours casting over 

 the submerged stumps in the cove brought no trace of 



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