A UNIQUE SOUVENIR. 



WILLIAM BATTLE. 



It was in the summer of '83, and I was 

 spending a month's vacation in North Caro- 

 lina with my uncle. Early one morning I 

 started, with rod and reel, to find a creek 

 which my uncle assured me would afford 

 good fishing. As I trudged along I heard 

 the rumbling of a distant wagon. It drew 

 nearer and finally a heavy farm wagon 

 drove noisily up behind me. "Halloo \" 

 shouted the driver, drawing up. "We are 

 going the same way; you might as well 

 ride." 



"Going fishing, I guess ?" he remarked, 

 as I climbed up beside him. In answer I 

 told him where I was going. At that he 

 laughed. 'Why, I thought everybodv knew 

 that no fish could be caught in Diamond 

 creek. I spent a day there last summer." 



"Did you not catch anything?" I asked. 



"Never even got a bite," he said ; "but 

 Jim Peterson was along with me that day, 

 and I never seen so much fun out of a 

 mortal in all my life." 



The old man took a huge bite from a 

 long plug of West Tennessee tobacco, re- 

 adjusted his coonskin cap and crossed his 

 legs comfortably. 



"It was about 4 in the evening," he went 

 on ; "Jim Peterson and me had been fishing 

 all up and down the creek, but had not even 

 had a bite. We wound in our lines and 

 started up stream to look for better luck. 

 We came on a place where the water was 

 clear as crystal and the current so swift 

 that, assisted by a sharp turn of the 

 stream, it would sometimes whirl sticks 

 clear up on the bank. 



"While we were wondering if we should 

 go any farther up stream or not a 12-inch 

 bass went ashore at the turn. We made a 

 grab for him, but he was back in the creek 

 before either of us could reach him. 



"We stopped right there. Jim cast 

 his line in the middle of the bend and I 

 went a few yards up stream to a deeper 

 place. After about 20 minutes of silent 

 fishing I turned toward my companion to 

 see what he was doing. 



"There was an old stump at the water's 

 edge. Jim was perched up on it with the 

 heel of one boot propped up on the toe of 

 the other and was fast asleep. I was look- 

 ing around for something to throw at him 

 when I heard a splashing at the bend and 

 thought there was another fish ashore. No 

 fish was in sight, but the current had forced 

 an eel out of the water and sent it whirl- 

 ing into Jim's open shirt bosom, though I 

 was not aware of the fact at that time. 

 The cold, wet thud awakened the sleeper 



and his eye fell on the snake-like form of 

 that eel doing the St. Vitus dance inside his 

 shirt front. 



"With a yell he turned a complete somer- 

 sault backward over the stump and bleated 

 like a sheep in a hail storm. He pawed the 

 earth like a mad bull with a red pillowslip 

 over its head, and broke down more sap- 

 lings than you could pile on a hayrack. He 

 kicked one of his boots off and ripped his 

 vest in halves. The boot whizzed across 

 the creek and caught on the end of a limb 

 half way up a big high sycamore tree, and 

 directly over the deepest place in the creek. 

 Just about that time the eel slipped out of 

 Jim's trouser leg. 



"Peterson finally recovered from his de- 

 lirium, and his first thought was of the 

 missing boot. The look he cast up in that 

 sycamore tree expressed great surprise and 

 deep humiliation. The only way to get it 

 was to wade the creek and climb the tree. 

 When he had crossed and was half way up 

 the tree I called his attention to a large hole 

 in the very limb on which the boot was 

 hanging; but he was too eager to recover 

 his property to stop and investigate the 

 hole. 



"I stood watching and presently saw, to 

 my amazement and horror, about half a 

 million yellow jackets fairly boiling out of 

 that hole in the tree. At first they did not 

 locate Jim, nor did he see them. They 

 whirled about the tree looking for the dis- 

 turber, and so many crossed to my side I 

 had to leave my post. 



"As I started I heard a great splashing 

 of water and knew my friend had been 

 forced to drop from the limb. In another 

 minute he came tearing through the woods 

 drawing behind him a string of yellow 

 jackets 50 yards long. There was a large 

 frame barn at the edge of the woods, c.nd 

 for that we headed. We ran into the barn 

 and through the stalls trying to lose those 

 vellow devils. They followed us up in the 

 hay mow and we swung down to the ground 

 by a rope from the mow window. Just 

 outside the barnyard we stopped to get our 

 breath. From the barn came the bellowing 

 of cattle and the squealiner of shoats. Then 

 a corner of the building burst like a torpedo 

 and out came horses, cows, and hogs, all 

 abreast. We resumed our retreat, leaving 

 the animals to take care of themselves and 

 the farmer to build a new barn. 



"Somewhere in the drifts of Diamond 

 creek there is an old white hat, but high in 

 a sycamore hangs the real souvenir of that 

 trip — an old, run-down, split-leather boot," 



274 



