PLAYING A PRIZE. 



T. F. H. 



Brother Gill and I have been inseparable 

 anglers for years. Should you run across 

 Gill fishing a stream I can be found not 

 far away. There is and has been a constant 

 rivalry between us as to who shall catch 

 the largest trout. Numbers do not count 

 with us. It is the sport of being afield 

 or in the forest that lures us to the brooks. 

 Furthermore, only large fish go to our 

 baskets. 



On a certain day last season the race be- 

 tween us had been unusually close. At 4 

 in the afternoon I had 12 good sized trout 

 and Gill had 10. I felt I was far enough 

 in the lead, and loafed along near by while 

 he industriously fished every pool. I 

 urged him again and again to pack up 

 and start for home, but he wouldn't listen 

 to it, and declared he would catch a trout 

 that would swallow my entire catch with 

 ease. That, I told him, would have to be 

 a sturgeon. 



Gill is great on playing a fish. I am, too; 

 but since that day he is greater than I. 

 On that occasion I wandered alpng and 

 noticed that Gill stayed long by a wide and 

 shallow pool. Holding his hand up in 

 warning he commanded me to keep away. 

 I obeyed, yet felt fearful that after all he 

 would beat my record that day. Should 

 T hurl a stone into that pool? Perish the 

 thought! Not for a trout made of gold. 



V 



Suddenly a wild yell startled me ! I rushed 

 to Gill's side and found him playing a huge 

 fish which he had successfully hooked. 

 His rod was bent almost double, and he 

 worked back and forth skillfully. How that 

 fish did fight! Across the pool, back again, 

 down stream, sulking under a rock, never 

 yielding an inch without a desperate strug- 

 gle. We could see his golden brown back 

 when he came to the top of the water, and 

 he looked every inch a 3-pounder! 



"He will weigh over 3 pounds," Gill 

 yelled. The a look of worriment came 

 over his face. 



"I fear I shall lose him," he yelled again. 



A generous impulse sprang into my 

 heart. I would help him land that fish 

 though it smashed my record into bits. I 

 rushed into the water and grasped the line. 

 One fi-ial pull, and the fish was flung 

 through the air, landing on the top of the 

 bank. We looked at each other, Gill's face 

 expressing unutterable thanks.. Then we 

 look toward the prize and at that moment 

 he flopped over on his back. We ex- 

 changed glances again. A grin on my part 

 at first, a roar of convulsive laughter, and 

 then the boy was executing a war dance on 

 his fish, filling him with lead from his 6- 

 shooter between jumps. Gill had caught 

 a sucker! 



WORD SAVING POEM. 



Some cooks bake with cottolene, 

 " lard, 

 use no grease at all, 

 But their pie crust's mighty hard. 

 Some men chew their plug tobacco, 

 " the tag, 

 " never work their jaw 

 Except to chew the rag. 

 Some men put their ads. in papers, 

 " them on the fence, 

 never advertise, 

 Who ought to have more sense. 



—Tit-Bits. 



