FLY-FISHING FOR BLACK BASS IN 

 THE SCHUYLKILL RIVER 



IT was about five o'clock on a pleasant evening 

 in June when three anglers stepped out of 

 the cars at Limerick station on the Reading 

 Railroad, rod-cases in hand, and creels slung 

 over their shoulders. 



A fifteen-minutes walk along the railroad, with 

 the Schuylkill River fifty feet below, brought them 

 to the bluff upon which their fishing-box was built, 

 and a winding ascent of some forty feet landed 

 them on their camp grounds, sheltered by the pines 

 from the sun, now fast losing itself behind the foot- 

 hills in the west. 



Throwing his traps upon the grass, the oldest 

 of them exclaimed: " Boys, it 's just the hour and 

 'just the water for the bass! Hey, Mendy! did you 

 ever see a better outlook for good sport? " 



" I never did. Doc, but once before, and then it 

 panned out bad enough." 



77 



