A MEMORY. 
A. R. SMITH. 
We had been planning a fishing trip, and 
at last the dayfcrit came. Myfriend, Emes, 
thought he had found a good place for 
bass, and, of course, big strings of fish im- 
mediately loomed up before us. When 
Emes and I first planned this trip I im- 
mediately wrote to another friend, Sam, 
and soon received a reply that he would 
gladly accompany us. For my part, I am 
_ Our Iowa friend told us that he 
not a shining light among the followers ~ 
of Izaac, and not enthusiastic over the 
pleasures of rod and line. However, I 
do love the gun, and do not hate any- 
thing which brings me within view of the 
beauties of nature. Sam, on the contrary, 
does not care for the gun, but would goa 
mile if he thought he could get a glimpse 
of a minnow. We were old friends and 
were accordingly happy, when we found 
ourselves together aboard the cars and 
going through a beautiful country to 
Orwigsburg. There Emes and Koenig 
awaited us with a team, and we started on 
another journey 8 miles by wagon. 
It was a sweltering day in August, I re- 
member, and as some of us wore gum 
boots, to save the carrying thereof, we 
soon felt there were worse places than 
“home, sweet home,” and that the fools 
were not all dead yet. 
After a hot and dusty journey, we ar- 
rived at the pond, a beautiful piece of 
water and by no means a small one. It 
was but a few minutes before we had our 
poles cut (not having provided ourselves 
with Bristol rods, or other modern appur- 
tenances), and we started to fish. I say 
“started” for we never got any farther, 
literally speaking. Koenig and Sam were 
devoted to their rods and consequently, 
looked longingly and lovingly at their 
“bobs” which now and then moved on 
the placid waters, as some aquatic being 
brushed against the hook. I think it must 
have been a mud turtle, for, if memory 
serves me right, we had no more than 
one or 2 bites during the afternoon. It 
was not long before I tired of fishing and 
started around the shores of the pond, in 
search of ducks. No luck attended me 
and all that could be done was to tell Emes 
what I thought of his judgment in bring- 
‘ing our party to such a forsaken place. 
On first arriving at the pond, we found 
another disciple of Walton sitting on the 
bank, and hoping against hope that some 
poor misguided bass would make connec- 
tion with his line, This man, we learned, 
399 
was a native of the locality, but of late 
years had lived in lowa, and was here on 
a visit to his old home. I questioned him 
about the shooting in Iowa, while Sam, 
Koenig and Emes would occasionally pull 
up their lines, and re-bait their hooks, 
which had undoubtedly been relieved of 
their bait by friction against the bottom. 
had 
2elped to stock this water many years be- 
fore, with bass and pickerel, and told 
stories of reclaiming some of those beau- 
ties at different times. But “times had 
changed,” and I hasten to relieve the read- 
er of any --xiety as to our catch. We 
came home without having caught a liz- 
ard, and thus were spared the annoyance 
of being called fish-hogs. 
Toward evening, Sam called my atten- 
tion to a large bird that had been flying 
around us since sunset. I had brought 
only a Flobert 22 rifle with me, for frog 
shooting, so a shot at this bird on the 
wing, was a “leetle bit” beyond me. After 
a short time, however, I saw the bird set- 
tle on a tall spruce tree about 50 yards 
away. It was already becoming dusk, and 
to get within range of the bird, I must get 
down the breast of the dam and cross a 
small swamp of about 5o feet area, before I 
could even hope for a chance of bringing 
the bird to bag. 
I started, and got through. Just as I 
was about to raise the gun, with my eyes 
on the bird, I struck my shin against a 
fallen log with a force that almost made 
me see stars. I aimed; the cartridge 
snapped. I began to get excited, especial- 
ly since the bird began to look around 
uneasily and raise its wings, having un- 
doubtedly heard me collide with the log. 
Taking hold of the barrel midway, so as 
to steady it to the utmost, I took a second 
aim, and fired. At the crack of the rifle, 
the bird fell part way, grasping the limbs 
for an instant, and then came. to the 
ground a lifeless mass of feathers. I heard 
Sam, over at the dam, yell, “He’s got 
him,” and going over, I picked up a beau- 
tiful black crowned night heron. I was 
proud of the shot, as it had been accom- 
plished under difficult circumstances. Af- 
ter the boys had got through examining 
my prize we packed up and started home- 
ward. 
