FOREST AND STREAM 
907 
Hats Off to Harper, Hero of the Angle! 
A Story of Thrills and Shivers, That one Would Rather Read by the Fireside Than Experience 
Or Enact in the Flesh 
F OR the moment Harper’s mind reverted to 
the lecture of the evening before at the 
town hall, on poisonous snakes in the 
United States. Long whiskered, elongated Pro¬ 
fessor Knowlton, whose thin face conformed 
well with his narrowness of breadth about the 
shoulders, held the local audience for two hours 
spellbound. Snakes had been the least of Har¬ 
per’s thoughts, and at home nothing could have 
drawn him to endure such a lecture. But what 
else could he do but attend and listen? He had 
missed the last stage to the fishing camp, and a 
long uninteresting wait at the country hotel was 
not promising of entertainment. 
Assembling his light fly rod and breathing his 
great lungs full of the pure mountain air, he 
affixed to the delicate gut leader a gaudy choice 
of flies. Two for his cast he selected—Babcocks 
he called them. Harper knew his fishing grounds 
well, and his blue eyes ranged down the stream 
trying to observe if any noticeable changes had 
taken place on the east bank. There were dan¬ 
gers here, he admitted. Moreover, that part of 
the river which he would fish downstream ex¬ 
acted more care in wading than any which he 
would encounter on the trip. 
It was worth it, he deluded himself, and added 
the explanation that the largest fish were to be 
taken in the localities similar to this. And to 
corroborate his statement he had taken along 
here, just the year previous, a small mouth bass 
weighing six and three-quarter pounds. 
Indeed, it was a royal fight he had with it, and 
the hazards of the locality added much to the 
pleasure of the conquest. 
Just as he donned his waders and was about 
to step from the dark, smooth, sloping rock into 
the water a part of the Professor’s lecture came 
back to him. He could not decide for himself 
whether the lecturer had alluded to the venom 
of our snakes as being of deadly nature. 
Current River pounded its way through this 
part of the hills as the termination of a quick 
bend into a long sweep of deep fast water. The 
sole projection of shoal between the steep twenty 
foot banks on both sides was about a foot wide 
of ledge-like rock extending a foot or more 
under the water. A step further meant a plunge 
into twenty feet or more of very swift water, 
and such conditions prevailed for a mile down¬ 
stream. From the east bank one could proceed 
downstream by steadying occasionally with the 
left hand. The other could be used in sending 
the cast to lurking spots of the fish, and when 
the strike came, with extreme caution the fighting 
redeye could be landed. But usually a desperate 
engagement ensued. 
At the best it was a risky piece of fishing 
water, and its very inaccessibility had something 
to do with its wonderful supply of game fish. 
By John B. Thompson. 
One could fish downstream, but after an advance 
in that direction retreat was impossible. During 
a period of excessively low water Harper had 
discovered the feasibility of fishing it. 
The beauty of spring was enchanced by the 
wild flowers and bright green of the hardwoods. 
Harper began his sport downstream, steadying 
his big figure on the bit of shoal. Having pro¬ 
ceeded a short distance, a water moccasin, be¬ 
coming alarmed at the invasion of its sunning 
sanctum, slipped quietly from the bank and 
dropped head foremost with a noisy plunk in 
the water. 
For a fraction of a moment the angler was 
startled. The lecture of the evening previous 
loomed before him, but the lure of the pastime 
soon erased it. He struck a fish—a valiant fight¬ 
er—and landed it. It was not quite up to his 
self-imposed standard of capture, so releasing it 
from its fastening of steel, he returned it to the 
river. Then he cast again on in front of him, 
pursuing his way with utmost precaution. 
A few more snakes of the moccasin family— 
thick rust-colored fellows—shimmering awhite 
under their mouths, made way for him. As his 
left hand continually steadied him he did not 
relish their presence. It was, however, a part of 
the fishing game, and evoked no more annoyance 
than a mere startled exclamation, “Ugh!” 
Farther on another interfered with his fish¬ 
ing. Snakes were appearing to an uncomfortable 
degree. None yet had offered attack, but it re¬ 
vived the Professor’s words in his mind. 
That he feared snakes right then he would not 
admit—not even to himself. But as they ap¬ 
peared with such frequency he sensed a compel¬ 
ling desire to retreat, and to fish some less 
hazardous part of the river where reptilian exhi¬ 
bitions were not so abundant. Then, too, as 
this surged on his sea of perplexities, instantly 
he recalled the impossibility of retreat. He be¬ 
gan to take hold of himself in a sensible way, 
and quieted his apprehension by reasoning, that 
he had seen no greater number of cotton- 
mouths than formerly. The only difference, he 
had not been subject to their terrifying influ¬ 
ence. If it were not for that fool Professor! 
What was the use of being alarmed? Not over 
six snakes had been close to him, and not a one 
of them had exhibited malignity at his trespass! 
He waded a little farther, exercising great cau¬ 
tion at this point, for the ledge was the narrow¬ 
est he had encountered. Ten feet more, how¬ 
ever, and this would be behind him. There was 
a coat of moss on the ledge. Must he not be 
more vigilant? It would be quite a cold plunge 
in the river, and dangerous, indeed, with feet 
encased in heavy waders. What were the 
chances of ever reaching safety? Surely, if he 
ever made a false step a great peril confronted 
him! Admitting the worst, he was positive, were 
he to take a plunge it would not be due to his 
lack of precaution. 
Almost kneeling he felt aloft on the bank, 
without seeing, for something to grasp. He 
seized a long slender vine. It was obstructed 
from view by the overhanging bank, and he could 
not classify it. This much he knew; it afforded 
great help. His right hand held his rod, the 
line floating on some feet ahead in the current, 
giving the flies a salutary play. Suddenly he 
felt a stinging prick on the back of his hand, like 
the stab of two hot needles. Then, horror of 
horrors! the largest cottonmouth he had ever 
seen presented his swaying head near him, and 
precipitated itself into the water. Immediately 
the angler realized that the giant cottonmouth 
had struck him. 
There was still Spartan courage remaining to 
Harper. His face blanched. Cold perspiration 
oozed forth in icy beads on his forehead. His 
knees trembled until they were only a weak sup¬ 
port. Yet he still clung to the ledge. 
What Harper’s feelings were at the moment 
can be conceived by visualizing his position. He 
forged his way along the ledge, refusing a glance 
at his paining hand, under stress of the thought 
that it would affect his fortitude. 
Presently he came to safer footing. He had 
escaped death in the brawling river, but was it 
for a death lingering and a thousand times more 
painful. He bit his lip, as looking into the mir¬ 
roring water the deathly pallor of his face was 
manifested. Yet then he checked his waning 
spirits and looked up into the clear sky as he 
brought his hand to his face. At first his head 
was averted, as though the sight meant death. But 
he survived all, even the remembrance of the 
Professor’s words. Slowly he permitted his eyes ta 
fall on the wounded member. It was all too 
true! There, beneath the grime still clinging from 
contact with the dirt on the bank were two spots 
of blood about an inch and a half apart! 
His hand was paining him dreadfully. How 
long did people live after having been bitten by a 
full grown cottonmouth? What were the op¬ 
portunities for medical assistance? The first 
question he tried to laugh away with the Pro¬ 
fessor’s theories framed in his favor, and to the 
second he had to admit they were far distant. 
There was quickening of the heart action! He 
had a seizure already! Weakness of the limbs! 
He could now feel a numbness permeating them 
All the stories recording death by snake bite 
overwhelmed his history of cures. To be sure 
there were cures possible, but only when medical 
treatment was at hand. It was obvious it was 
now too late. 
Suck the wound, he had been advised. In his 
trying dilemma he had forgotten that. Was’it 
too late now? The fiery poison was now cours¬ 
ing in his veins. Could he not realize that much 
