Lost by One Step 



that time, however, I regarded his statement as words 

 of wisdom from one who could not be wrong and was 

 as intolerant of a live bait user as he was. I believed 

 in the absolute superiority of the fly over any other 

 bait or lure, and an effort to prove this superiority to 

 some boys of my own age resulted in what was my 

 most tragic fishing moment. 



It was during the month of April, and I was visiting 

 my uncle in Madison County. About a mile and a 

 half from his farm ran a small, winding stream 

 an excellent place to catch trout. On this particular 

 day three neighboring farmer lads and myself started 

 for the stream to catch a mess of fish. 



I had an excellent bamboo casting-rod which my 

 father had given me, a good assortment of trout flies, 

 a landing net and other paraphernalia necessary to a 

 fly-fisherman. The boys had straight sticks of bam- 

 boo about fifteen feet long and very ordinary hooks 

 and lines. Their bait consisted of a miscellaneous 

 collection of worms, grubs and grasshoppers thrown 

 together indiscriminately into an old paint pail, which 

 was half-filled with earth and grass. 



I am afraid I was a bit snobbish over my superior 

 equipment and we were soon engaged in an argument 

 as to which outfit could catch the most fish. I de- 

 clared hotly in favor of the fly and determined to show 

 them I was right. They were equally positive that 

 their worms, etc., would entice the best catch from the 



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