Tragic Fishing Moments 



so, on the second day after deer hunting all the 

 morning I got out my fourteen foot canvas canoe 

 and paddled up French's Creek to try for a bass or 

 two for supper, the rest of the bunch going on the 

 river after ducks. 



About an hour after starting I came to a large 

 dead pine lying from the bank out into the creek, the 

 big, bushy top of which had yielded up more than one 

 bass on former trips. 



Starting in near the bank I cast all along the trunk 

 of the tree and then worked the openings among the 

 limbs. Crossing the end of the top and working the 

 upper side I had a light strike. Quickly reeling in 

 and casting back over my left shoulder a fish took 

 the lure and took it hard. I hooked him and the 

 battle was on! 



I felt at once that he was a good one and, as I 

 have found almost invariably the case when the water 

 is cold, he did all his fighting below the surface. He 

 also followed the usual bass tactics of exercising every 

 effort to get back among the submerged tree limbs 

 from which he had come and I had to use black- 

 smith work to keep him away from them. But a 

 new sixteen pound test line and a trusted rod gave 

 me the confidence to put it to him hard, a necessary 

 method of treatment if I was to keep him away from 

 the safety of those tangled, water-soaked branches. 



Finally, I had him coming, but not before his efforts 

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