JOB'S DOUBLE CATCH 



453 



" 'Now that my big trout is caught, 

 it is no more than right that I should 

 know who caught him. My name is 

 Joe Multer, and I live on the first farm 

 above here,' I said, by the way of in- 

 troduction. 



" 'And surely Joe Multer is the one 

 that caught him. My name is Dora 

 Davenport. My mother, brother and 

 myself live • on the farm below here/ 

 she laughingly mimicked me, 'and the 

 trout surely belongs to you, for I should 

 have lost him but for your help, And 

 besides, I have enough without him.' 

 She showed me about a dozen nice trout 

 on a wilier stringer. 



" 'The big trout belongs to you,' I 

 answered, ' 'cause you hooked him fair 

 and square, and I will not take him. 

 It was nothin' to land him after you 

 had him so well hooked.' 



"It took a long time for me to con- 

 vince the girl that I didn't want the 

 fish. Tisn't the eatin' of a fish I en- 

 joy alone; its the catchin' of 'em. Fin- 



ally she agreed to take him, providin' 

 I'd come down and help eat him next 

 day for the Sunday dinner. It is need- 

 less to say I went, but to this day I 

 cannot tell how the fish tasted. I can 

 only remember how the girl looked as 

 she played hostess. 



"I learned her mother was a widow 

 lately moved on the farm, and that the 

 stalwart brother, nearly my own age and 

 size, was very creditably filling his 

 father's shoes in the management of 

 the farm. 



"I met her often after that, both fish- 

 in' and at the farmhouse. There was 

 somethin' about her that charmed away 

 my bashfulness, and I was always con- 

 tent in her company." 



Joe suddenly turned and struck a 

 match to light his forgotten cigar, and 

 I knew the story was ended. 



"But what became of the girl, Joe?" 

 I asked. 



"That's her callin' us to dinner now," 

 he answered. 



UNFORTUNATE 



By STACY E. BAKER. 



O'er lands, by law, forbidden, 

 I hie me to the brook, 



And, by the alders, hidden, 

 I toss a gaudy hook. 



I creep along the grasses, 

 Upon my hands and knees, 



I note the snake that passes, 

 And I am stung by bees. 



I hurry through the dingle, 

 To follow up the rill, 



And troubles, never single, 

 All hasten after still. 



I whip the stream, and linger 

 By laughing waters there, 



My hook stuck in my finger, 

 And burdocks in my hair. 



I hustle through the brambles, 



And saucily I speak, 

 For there I end my rambles 



By falling in the creek, 



