THE TROUT I MISSED. 



DON CAMERON. 



Vague rumors of mammoth trout 

 in Southwest creek reached me in my 

 sanctum, and immediately I caught the 

 fever and had it bad. All my thoughts 

 were fishy. My ink-well seemed to en- 

 large to a great, black pool wherein 6- 

 pounders lay; my penholder lengthened 

 into a whiplike rod; and the early flies that 

 buzzed about my head were Professors and 

 Parmachene Belles. 



Next morning found me on the stream. 

 I had succeeded so far in getting a dozen 

 big snarls and 3 small trout. I was be- 

 coming discouraged, when I espied a per- 

 fect trout paradise ahead — a slash filled 

 with logs and the swift stream curving 

 through it. If there was a trout in the 

 whole creek it was there. I changed my 

 flies and cautiously approached the pool. 

 The hot sun poured on my bare head and 

 blistered my neck, but I heeded it not. 

 With a little flutter my flies settled on the 

 quickly moving surface and were carried 

 down and across into deep water. Not a 

 bite, not a stir. Again I tried, with no 

 better luck. With trembling fingers I 

 changed the flies and cast again in the 

 deepest and blackest part of the pool. 

 There was a tremendous splash and I 

 struck and missed. 



For the next hour I slashed and cut the 

 pool, the stream, the bank, the logs and 

 the woods. Losing my temper, I made 

 derogatory remarks 'concerning trout and 

 idiots who tried to catch them. After the 

 atmosphere cleared sufficiently I advanced 

 and looked over the pool. Not a sign of 



life. I glanced into the swift running 

 water, and there lay the biggest trout in 

 the creek, slowly switching his broad tail 

 to maintain his position and paying not the 

 slightest heed to me. My rod dropped 

 with a clatter to the stones, but he didn't 

 budge. For fully 5 minutes I watched him 

 pump huge mouthfuls of water through 

 his gills and wag his tail. I picked up mv 

 rod and tried to lure him with the choicest 

 of bait, but he would have none of it. 

 Slowly I waded out toward him; he looked 

 at me, but didn't move. I drew nearer, 

 until I stood almost over him; he gulped 

 and waved unconcernedly. Truly, this was 

 a wonderful fish. 



His pink body lay not a foot from my 

 toes. What to do I didn't know. At last 

 a happy thought struck me. I would lay 

 down my rod, roll up my sleeves, grab 

 him just behind the gills and throw him 

 clear out on the pebbly shore. Everything 

 went well until my hands almost touched 

 his mottled back, and I felt as sure of him 

 as if he were already cooked. After a last 

 look at my hands to see if they were ex- 

 actly right I grabbed. 



The water flew up and engulfed me. 

 The bottom slipped from under my feet. 

 I felt a slippery, slimy body wiggle for an 

 instant in my arms, and — all was over. 

 Slowly I regained my feet, untied my arms 

 and fingers, picked up my tackle and 

 sneaked back home. 



Moral : Never catch big trout in your 

 hands ; it's against the law. 



After William Tell had shot the apple 

 from the head of Tell, Jr., he was urged 

 to do so on subsequent occasions for the 

 pleasure of those who missed the first per- 

 formance. But he declined, saying, 



''What's the use? They won't book me 

 in the continuous vaudeville, and it is too 

 early to start a Wild West show."— Balti- 

 more American. 



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