Tragic Fishing Moments 



when not a fish would respond to the most persistent 

 offering of worm, grasshopper or grub. 



No objection was made to my fishing week days, 

 but Sunday fishing was a " crime " in the eyes of my 

 Scotch-Presbyterian grandma, who was normally sweet 

 and kind but who could be stern enough if her little 

 grandson misbehaved. A glorious Sunday afternoon 

 came along. I had been both to church and Sunday 

 School, was dolled up and clean as all little boys had 

 to be on the Lord's Day then, and it was really not 

 with the intention of fishing that I made my way 

 through the woods and down to my favorite log jam, 

 along about three p. m. No, I intended to hop up and 

 down on those logs and scare the pickerel out into the 

 open water, where I could look at and admire them. 

 Always half a dozen or more pickerel could be de- 

 pended to scoot out from beneath the shelter of the 

 log jam when I hopped in a special place. The jar 

 of the heavy logs frightened them. 



It was a small frog that started the crime of fish- 

 ing that day. I saw the little speckled devil and cap- 

 tured him, and then remembered that, through habit, 

 I had a fishing line and hooks in my Sunday clothes. 

 So, just as an experiment, I decided to throw a little 

 green frog into the pickerel pool and see if a long-nosed 

 pickerel would stand for it. Deciding I might as well 

 have the frog on a hook, I cut a " pole," rigged up line 

 and hook, slipped into a strategic position without 



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