268 



RECREATION. 



Presently the Deacon came to me, bear- 

 ing a hook in his hand. 



"Your hook was defective," he said. 

 "It's broken squarely off in the curve, and 

 you can plainly see a defect in the metal. 

 If the hook had held you would have got 

 him." 



He cut it loose and dropped it in my 

 hand. He was right. There was the 

 larger part of the hook, and the flaw and 

 the bright new broken part were plainly 

 discernible. It comforted me strangely, 

 and I laid it carefully away as proof of 

 how I had lost my biggest fish in the Wa- 

 bash. 



I had fished ever since I cut suckers 

 from the apple trees for poles with the 

 bread knife, and used cotton cord lines, 

 and bent-pin hooks, and hoed the worms 

 for bait from among my father's cabbages. 

 "Where were my biggest ones? Gone back 

 to their native element. 



There was another day, on a Northern 

 lake, fishing off a dock. I hooked as big a 

 bass as this, and I was 5 feet above the 

 water, with a cane pole and a rotten line. 

 I kept him 15 minutes. At last, when he 

 was too tired to even try to run, I lay flat 

 on the dock, ran my hand as far down the 

 line as I could reach and tried to lift him. 

 The line broke and he sailed away, with 

 some 3 feet of it waving "Fare ye well!" in 

 graceful curves over his back. 



My first big fish was a 10-pound pickerel, 

 hooked on Mullet lake, up on the inland 

 route. I had fought the battle alone, had 

 hung on and had landed him. He gave 

 one might}' - flop and I thought he was go- 

 ing to clear the boat. I threw myself on 

 him, full length, and hugged him des- 

 perately to my bosom, and held him until 

 the Deacon manufactured a stringer out of 

 the stoutest trolling line in the boat, dou- 

 bled, and put him back in the water. Then 

 I arose, fish slime from my chin to my 

 knees, but with victory singing her war 

 song in my soul. 



We were stopping at Pike's, of Topina- 

 bee. Hod Pike had an attractive way of 

 spreading a fish's jaws, pickling the head 

 and mounting it on birch bark covered 

 boards. He had said that if I got any- 

 thing at all fit he would be glad to fix it 

 for me. I had said to the Deacon that if 

 I got a fish as large as even the smallest 

 one in the office I should be proud and 

 happy. While I wrestled in the boat bot- 

 tom I had found voice to ask, 



"He'll do to mount, won't he?" To my 

 delight the Deacon replied, 



"Sure. There's nothing bigger in the 

 office except that sturgeon head." 



A little later, while I was trying to de- 

 cide whether I would put my trophy be- 

 side a deer head in the hall, or hang it 

 over the dining room mantel, a boat bear- 

 ing an insurance man from Chicago, 

 named McKensie, came by, and I called 

 him up to see my fish. I got to my feet, 

 took the stringer in both hands, squared 

 myself for a lift, and it flipped up in my 

 face, sawed in 2! It was 10 years ago, but 

 I can hear that man's ringing laugh yet. 

 No doubt I looked funny, between the dis- 

 appointment in my face and the slime dried 

 on my clothes; and Solomon with all his 

 wisdom couldn't have told how that fish 

 got away. 



This Wabash bass made the third big 

 fish I had lost. True, I had landed many 

 large ones in the meantime, that fought 

 fiercely and weighed enough to satisfy 

 anyone; but the weight of the ones you 

 don't land is problematical. They pull so 

 hard, and look so big in the water, and you 

 long so to save them! 



Without any definite purpose I rolled a 

 clay ball from the damp bank where my 

 shoes had dripped. I was careful with its 

 construction. It was large, round and 

 hard. Then I planted that hook in the 

 middle of the ball and laid it in the sun to 

 bake. A few hours later, clothed, and in 

 my right mind, I whizzed it at a turtle on 

 a log in mid-river. Hit it, too! 



Somehow, I couldn't settle down to fish- 

 ing any more that day. I took a camera 

 and went where the woods were damp and 

 cool; where shy squirrels barked and ran 

 their fleetest; where brooding birds waited 

 the coming of happy motherhood, and 

 wild flowers filled the air with sweetness. 

 When packing up time came I noticed 

 the Deacon hunting about, and asked him 

 if he had lost something. 



"I can't find that piece of hook," he said. 

 "I wanted to save it." 



"Did you see me hit that turtle with a 

 mud -ball?" 

 "Yes." 



"Well, that hook was in the midst there- 

 of." 



"What did you do that for? I wanted to 

 show it to the boys. ' 



"And get insulted for your pains! No 

 one believes those stories." 

 "That's so!" said the Deacon. 



"George," she cooed, "why can't we get 

 married next Sunday?" 



"Well," hesitatingly replied the recalcit- 

 rant but manly youth at her side, "we 

 could, I s'pose, but it may rain Sunday." 



"George, if it rains Sunday couldn't we 

 get married Saturday?" — Judge. 



