64 RECREATION , 
with the picture machine still at my feet, 
untouched. I trust I may be pardoned for 
the omission. 
I might be charged with pleonasm to 
essay a further description. Suffice it to say, 
however, that the battle waged relentlessly 
for fifty-eight minutes by the watch. Each 
dash for liberty, each leap for freedom, was 
but a repetition of former dashes and leaps, 
yet each had in it that indescribable some- 
thing to impress it more vividly upon my 
memory. Five times the fish went into the 
air, each succeeding leap, perhaps, less 
vigorous, until it floated upon the water’s 
surface, weakened, defeated. 
Then the exhausted mascalonge was 
brought to the boat, and Armstrong, who, 
gaff in hand, had been a silent, exultant 
witness to its gameness, adroitly lifted it 
beyond the pale of freedom. As it lay 
bleeding from the knife thrust, and gasping 
for the life for which it had so valiantly 
fought, I owned to an ineffable regret—I 
wished I might give it back its life to com- 
pensate for the sport it had given me. 
Once inside the boat, it was easy to see 
that my pocket scales, which had a limit of 
fifteen pounds, were of little use. It was 
fully three hours later, which—perhaps— 
meant a loss of a couple of pounds, that it 
tipped the beam at 223. It measured 46 
inches from tip to tip, ten inches spread of 
tail, 20 inches girth and 3 inches between 
the eyes, while its lower jaw protruded an 
inch beyond its upper and measured nine 
inches. 
A storm, which had been threatening for 
an hour, now broke in all its fury, and we 
were forced to take refuge in a deserted 
cabin. As we silently battled against the 
heavy swells on our return, the guide bend- 
ing to his work with a light heart and 
strong arm, I rested my oars and, half-turn- 
ing, inquired: 
‘“‘ And how was the wind ?” 
The guide faced the east in critical 
silence, and when he replied a few moments 
later, there was just the suggestion of disap- 
pointment in his voice, as he said: 
“Well, a little north of east.” 
AN INTERRUPTED SONG 
BY JOHN BROWN JEWETT 
HE summer sky - bright and free 
Of even a zephyr’s wings; 
High on the hilltop’s loftiest tree 
A redbird sits and sings. 
A cloud appears; the breezes rise; 
The cloud comes swiftly on; 
Its lightnings fill the darkened skies, 
And lo, the bird is gone. 
But raging rain, and tearing wind, 
And thunderbolt, pass by, 
Leaving their dripping wrecks behind, 
The sun regains the sky. 
And on the ruins of the tree, 
’Mid shining drops of rain, 
The redbird sits, and merrily 
Resumes his broken strain. 


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