Vain Glory 



Mr. J. S. Hardaway, of Newman, Georgia, here 

 tells a dramatic and tragic tale of his boyhood. 

 Brother Hardaway half apologizes for his story and 

 says : " If it's not good enough, I will not be either 

 surprised or dismayed." The idea, old man, your 

 story is a peach, and I do not envy the fisherman 

 so bankrupt of childhood memories who does not 

 get a thrill from it. He certainly has no business 

 to " sit in " this game. 



The first mild April sun was slowly setting behind 

 the pines on the near-by hill, casting its shadows and 

 a bit of chill over the east bank of the creek where 

 I had been for several hours busily engaged in luring 

 various sun perch, warmouths, and an occasional shiner 

 from out of the depths of the west bank and its fringe 

 of willows. One long sprig of willow on which I 

 stood as a Safety First precaution already held cap- 

 tive a string of fish about equal to the depth of the 

 water beneath the bank. There were yet many fat, 

 juicy worms in the tomato can, for the trip had been 

 premeditated. My well-trained ears could all but hear 

 my mother say: "Where on earth is that boy? Til 

 never consent to his fishing again," as I realized that 



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