An Angler Not a Matador 



Bass because of Brother Bull, is to experience the 

 most tragic of all tragic moments. That was what 

 happened to me. Could we only see events ten min- 

 utes before they happen or see how they would end, 

 I would now be the proud possessor of Daddy Bass 

 but alas! 



On the shores of a certain lake in Texas there lived 

 a red bull noted far and near for his bad disposition 

 and his ability to scatter picnic parties pronto. In 

 the lake lived a large-mouth black bass whose years 

 made him the Methuselah of all bass, whose size com- 

 pared favorably with Jonah's whale, and whose pug- 

 nacity shamed even the red bull. This bass was known 

 only to a few friends and myself, and we had ar- 

 ranged to give its captor a supper, also some tackle, 

 as a tribute to his skill as an angler. 



I slipped out early one morning and dropped my 

 line, baited with a minnow, right into the front door 

 of Daddy Bass' house, but he must have been out, for 

 there was no response. The home of this bass was 

 in some deep water right at the foot of a very steep 

 bank, probably eight or ten feet high. My plan was 

 to hook the bass, and when he tired, lead him down 

 the lake a short way to shallow water, and then bring 

 him in. But that bank was too good a place for con- 

 cealment ; by lying flat upon it, Mr. Bass could not see 

 me at all. 



With the perseverance of a book-agent I tried and 

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