Tragic Fishing Moments 



The green reed pole bent and unbent. The water was 

 threshed into foam. My back hurt; my arms ached; 

 my head swam; the string of small pan fish floated 

 away on the current of the creek unnoticed. 



A former experience with some unknown inhabi- 

 tant of the water had convinced me that a stout line 

 was of prime importance, and fortunately I had as 

 heavy a cotton line as could be found in the local 

 hardware store's supply. How long we battled there 

 is largely a matter of conjecture, for there was some 

 light to see by when, in an unguarded moment, the 

 fish came in close and into shallow water. Like a 

 flash I grabbed the line as close to him as I could and 

 set out up the sand bank, stopping only when he was 

 twenty feet ashore. There was no time to stop and 

 admire the catch, for he hadn't conceded it even then. 

 With the energy of a thousand eels he went into a 

 twisting, squirming action that defied approach. Fi- 

 nally, having dried him well in the white sand by 

 standing on him with both feet, I managed to get a 

 heavy cord through his gills, recover my first loves 

 from the drift below where they had hung in transit 

 downstream, and set out home. 



I was some hero when I arrived at the little vine- 

 clad cottage. The stern countenance of my father 

 passed swiftly into one of amazement. Not one of 

 us had ever seen such a fish before. I thought it 

 must be some monster bass, changed to some extent 



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