Tragic Fishing Moments 



Green Bank resulted in one of those rises with a wash- 

 tub effect, and I hooked and landed a one and one- 

 quarter pound beauty. Several more casts, and I 

 hooked a pair. They gave me considerable trouble, 

 but Ben, the Indian, eventually got them both safely 

 in the landing net. 



The sun had now dropped behind the low hills, and 

 as the shadows deepened on the river well known 

 spots and trees and bushes along the banks assumed 

 weird shapes. A robin redbreast was whistling his 

 good-night song on the very tip top of a tall spruce. 

 The little feathered tribes were fluttering in the thick 

 foliage settling themselves for sleep, and an owl in a 

 near-by " rampike " hooed his approval of coming 

 darkness. 



It was getting difficult to see just where my flies 

 were dropping, so I shortened up my line. The In- 

 dian's paddle dipped noiselessly and we floated gently 

 down. On arrival opposite a familiar birch tree that 

 overhung the largest and deepest hole on the river, 

 he backed water and held the boat motionless. 



I cast, dragging the flies over the deep spot in lit- 

 tle quick jerks. There was no response. Again I 

 cast. A slight swirl in the semidarkness and I struck. 

 " Blast it, I'm on to a log," I said. 



" No, big fish," said Ben and then out ran the line. 



" Heavens and earth, Ben, it's a brute," I breathed. 



" Big fish," Ben again said. 

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