A RECORD SMALL-MOUTH. 



REV. T. H. BARAGWANATH. 



We had been waiting a long time for a 

 favorable opportunity to go bass fishing. 

 My comrade was a Mr. B., principal of the 

 public school. Like myself, the Professor 

 was a lover of the gentle art of angling 

 and was in every way companionable. Not 

 only are anglers superior beings, because 

 by "the purling brook and on the breeze- 

 swept surface of the lake they get near to 

 nature's breast ; but there is a bond of 

 sympathy between them, stronger than that 

 of any fraternal organization. 



It was past the middle of September and 

 was the beginning of the golden autumn. 

 Our starting point was one of the loveliest 

 towns on the banks of the lordly Hudson. 

 It was afternoon as we drove East some 

 7 or 8 miles over a road we traveled in 

 search of sport, and by the time we reached 

 the small but lovely lake the sun was sink- 

 ing back of the purple Catskills. 



Late as it was we could not rest that 

 night without a few trials ; but though we 

 toiled faithfully, until long after the moon 

 had flung her silvery light over lake and 

 forest, we caught only a few small fry for 

 breakfast. We felt sure the morrow would 

 bring us joy; so with large hopes, such as a 

 true angler always has on hand, we sought 

 shelter in the hut amid the white birches, 

 where, after a frugal meal we lay down to 

 pleasant dreams with horse blankets as our 

 couch. 



No angler can sleep late in the morning, 

 at such a time. Long before dawn we 

 were up, and had the fire going. Soon the 

 tent was filled with the delicious odor of 

 coffee, while some of last night's catch were 

 frizzling in the pan. What a famous 

 breakfast that was ! Better by far than any 

 ever evolved by a hotel chef. 



Then we waited for daylight. There is 

 an indescribable charm in the dawning of 

 day, especially when watched from amid 

 the wilderness, "far from the madding 

 crowd." The grey half tones give place to 

 tints of warmer grey, followed by the 

 blush of morn, which o'erspreads the East- 

 ern sky and lights up the trees and waters. 

 The awakened birds rise through the slow- 

 ly rolling mists and hang on the wing in 

 the upper radiance, or pour forth a flood 

 of melody from amid the mass of foliage 

 whose every leaf that catches the sunlight 

 flashes with pearls of dew. 



So dawned this golden autumn day that 

 was to prove so memorable to us. 



Our tackle was all ready, and we pushed 

 out into the lake. Two precious hours 



passed with little luck, save for a few 

 pickerel and yellow perch. Ever hopeful 

 we changed from one ground to another. 

 On the Southwest side of the lake a point 

 juts out, from which a bar stretches some 

 distance. There we anchored, the Profes- 

 sor fishing for his favorites, the greedy 

 pickerel, while he joked about those bass 

 that came not. 



I put on 2 fat crickets, and threw them 

 out 20 feet, the bait striking the water 

 lightly and then sinking slowly. Twice this 

 was repeated, when there was a vigorous 

 strike. With a turn of the wrist the hook 

 was set, and then the reel sang its sweetest 

 song. The fish turned, I felt the strain, 

 and knew I had a monster. 



"Clear the deck, Professor, I've got a 

 big one." 



"Look, Dominie, he is in the air!" he 

 exclaimed. 



"Yes, it's the biggest I have ever seen," 

 I answered. The fish came for the boat 

 and there was danger, but when he received 

 the butt he turned to sea again. 



"You'd better pull in him, Dominie." 



"Not I ; my Bristol rod is most reliable, 

 and my leader and line are tested, but if I 

 attempt to pull him in he would smash the 

 gear in a twinkle." 



Ten minutes the fight went on, and he 

 showed no signs of flagging, but my friend 

 showed signs of impatience, fearing I 

 would lose my prize. I, myself, was fear- 

 ful, but while inwardly agitated I was out- 

 wardly cool. Eight times he took to the 

 air in spite of all my efforts, and shook 

 himself like a mad bull, but he was still 

 linked to me by that vibrating silken thread. 

 After a quarter of an hour he showed signs 

 of weariness. 



"Get the net, Professor." 



"Where is it?" 



Horrors ! I had left it home, and with- 

 out it how was I to secure my beauty? 

 Just then I hailed a boat out for bait. A 

 scaup net was lowered, but my fish was 

 gamy yet, and made a dash of 50 feet. How 

 he cut the water ! Again I led him gently 

 to the boat, and that time over the net. 



"Now !" And the big fellow came in out 

 of the wet. He tipped the scales at ^Va 

 pounds 3 hours after he was caught. 



Another 2 hours and 2 other bass lay by 

 the side of the noble old Roman. It was 

 indeed a red letter day and the Professor 

 and I were tired of telling how we beat 

 the record on small mouth bass. 



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