SISTER ELLEN'S FISH STORY 



177 



Now I could answer my father's call, for the 

 dazed fish had found a corner, and a groping 

 thumb and finger had found the back of his neck. 

 My repressed feelings broke forth in one long, 

 ambiguous, feminine scream. 



There were bigger trout up the canon, as Uncle 

 Sam had promised. And there was noble sport in 

 catching them according to rule. But my enjoy- 



"a life-sized, wooden effigy of my first brook trout" 



ment of trout - fishing reached its zenith in the 

 dusk of that August night when, dripping but 

 triumphant, I went to meet the rescue party on 

 the shore. By my father's torch I read astonish- 

 ment and admiration on all faces. And the wonder 

 grew when I held up my struggling prize, and 

 they saw in the yawning mouth two hooks, and 

 impaled upon them two grasshoppers, still strug- 

 gling to get free. 



Theoretically, I do not approve of the souvenir 

 habit. Chips from monuments and splinters from 

 historic trees I esteem not. But above my desk 



