THE BIG TURTLE OF SAWMILL POND. 



E. M. LEETE. 



Bill Smith and I had been on the brook 

 since sunrise fishing steadily. I carried a 

 skeleton rifle, strapped on my back, for a 

 chance woodchuck, but none showed itself, 

 and we devoted all our time to the trout. 

 Now we wormed our way through the 

 damp bushes to drop a line in some favor- 

 ite spot ; now stood on a rock at the foot 

 of a rapid and floated our bait into the 

 pool below ; again, waist deeo in the brook 

 at the head of some deep hole, we dropped 

 a squirming worm into the quiet water be- 

 yond. 



Fair luck we were having, too. Out of 

 Otter hole we had taken 7 handsome fish, 

 the Turtle hole had yielded 6, while 5 more 

 had left their home in the green meadow 

 and joined their fellows in our basket. 

 The brook that we were fishing wound 

 down through the woods and meadows, 

 and was finally stopped in its course by a 

 dam which, though sadly out of repair, 

 made a pond of perhaps 5 acres ; the Old 

 Sawmill pond, it was called. It was. 

 grown up with bushes and lily pads, leav- 

 ing a streak of clear water through the 

 center. We had fished at the head of the 

 pond, and now, tired and wet, were sit- 

 ting on a lo£ near the dam, idly throwing 

 our lines into the open water. My com- 

 panion lived not far from this place, while 

 my home was in the village 7 miles below. 

 Bill knew every crook and corner of the 

 brook from one end to the other, --d ap- 

 parently had a personal acquaintance with 

 every fish in it. He knew where the big 

 ones lurked and where only small fry could 

 be caught. He knew when and what they 

 would bite. 



As we sat there on the log, Bill said : 



"Do you know the largest turtle I 

 ever saw lives in this pond? He has lived 

 here 10 years to my knowledge. I see 

 him almost every summer and last sum- 

 mer I saw him twice." 



"How big is he?" 



"Oh, he is as large as the head of a 

 sugar barrel, and I should say he would 

 weigh 100 pounds. I want him bad, but 

 never could get him. A pair of wood 

 ducks nest here, too, and in the fall I bring 

 home some black ducks and teal from here 

 and up along the brook. What ails the 

 trout, my bait has not been touched for 

 an hour? I will try on the other side." 



With that Bill took his rod and dis- 

 appeared through the bushes. 



Now, my non-fishing friends, do not think 

 for a moment that "it is all of fishing to 

 fish," nor, as I have heard it put, that fish- 

 ing is "a string with a worm at one end 

 and a fool at the other." As I sat there on 

 the log, in the sunshine, while the vapor 

 steamed from my damp clothes, it was good 

 to be alive. It was good to have ears to 

 hear the bobolink in the alder bush just 

 back of me, and eyes to see the wonderful 

 picture just in front. The bushes fring- 

 ing the pond were taking on their summer 

 garb, the trees of the woodland beyond 

 were dressed in brightest green, while over- 

 head in the deep blue of the sky, a circling 

 hawk put life into the picture. The sun 

 was hot on my back, and poured down on 

 the still water, making the bottom plainly 

 visible for some distance out until it 

 changed into the blackness of the deep 

 water beyond. 



But what is that? A human hand? No, 

 but the likeness was striking, as out of the 

 black water there rose a ghostly gray shape, 

 with a savage head, and feet that in the 

 dimness looked like a man's hands. Up it 

 rose until its shape was plainly visible. 

 Then it dawned on me, that the big turtle 

 Bill had spoken of was before me. He was 

 fully as large as my friend said, with some 

 to spare. _ As he floated lazily to the sur- 

 face I laid down my rod, picked up the 

 rifle and waited. Slowly the great reptile 

 moved until his back and head showed 

 above the surface. When he thrust his 

 head up and opened his mouth the rifle 

 came to my cheek, and, glancing along the 

 clean brown tube until the ivory front 

 sight was fair against his livid throat, 

 I pressed the trigger. Through some happy 

 chance, the ball either entered the brain 

 or cut the spinal cord. The victim died 

 with scarce a struggle. A shout, and Bill 

 was with me. Together we tried with 

 sticks to get the immense thing to shore 

 but without success. 



"Well," remarked Bill, "I am half wet 

 through now, and I want that turtle bad, 

 so here goes" ; and in he went and brought 

 it to land. 



It came fully up to his description and 

 it was all we could do to lift it into the 

 wagon. 



Fond Mother — Willie, you should have 

 known better than to fight that Smith boy. 



Willie — I know, mamma, but I thought 

 I cud lick him. — Ohio State Journal, 

 254 



