The daily morning journal and courier., 1903-10-24
LANDING A BIG PICKEREL.

LANDING A BIG PICKEREL. Frank finally slows up as we near the; moss beds, just east of the fred barn, and rests gracefully on his oars as square myself, preparatory to casting. first try of recognition from glorious old Micropterus at the mouth of the lit tie bay, polka dotted with the broad, yellowish dishes of the spatterdock and starred with white and golden water lilies, which opens coyly into the sway i ing jules. Dropping my frog adroitly l here, finging there, tease the lazy wa ters, but in vain.
 Not a strike rewards my feverish im- patience Tanning picks up the oars and with gentle stroke sends the boat up closer, where the water is more shall ! low and the moss heavier. I skip my weedless over the rippling surface, speaking the dark green, sleepy pools with it, ike huge heron feeding, as l bend to and fro, stoop and rise in the l ardor of my work. | The bullfrog croaks among the float l ing lily pads along the n1arshy shore; a l devils darning-needle flashes athwart 1 the water in a prism of royal purple and gleaming violet, the kline low, winding pastureward up the distant lane, and the pestiferous deer fly huns and buzz es about my ears as if. in rnockery at my earnest endeavors.
 l Tanning sits idly in his seat, indiffer- ent to everything save the pearly bub- l bles eddying away from the softly rock i ing boats side.
 Softer still, through the shirnmering morning haze, the sun sheds his rays over the scene. On the left bank the l trees and aIders are thrown into the glassy lake by the most delicate pencil- l ling, forming series of fairy paintings, entrancing to look upon, specked as they are with the topaz, the crimson, l the garnet and lapis-lazuli of the glan- cling sunshine, paintings that you may search for without finding throughout any and all of the Parisian galleries and salons. From the gnarled trunks of the aged oaks to the serrated edges of the leaves, everything on the margin is de- picted in the lake as if it's waters were f one wondrous mirror.
 1 Suddenly we find ourselves moored in I a network of floating moss, and Sal rnoides makes assault after assault I upon my frogs, and for two hours no 1 waters in the world could furnish better sport. In that time a dozen bass or more, in the blazonry of their splendid armor, are Hopping and gleaming in a bed of willow sprigs in the bottom of the boat
 There! my lure strikes placid pool, back and beyond the first line of jules,
 where the sunlight glares like the orb | of a basilisk.
 "Hey!" cry in excitement.
 "Steady!" echoes the guide, aroused at fast from his lethargy.
 Off the striken fish darts like a ball from a gun. Down he drives as he
 rushes out into the deep as if he would penetrate the lakes bottom. Then up I he comes again as if to clear the aque- GUS barrier and take fiightthrough the
 ether. As his yellow spotted sides flash in the sunshine, we see what it is.
 Esox 1ucius!
 The tiger of the waters-a fifteen or
 twenty-pound pickerel!
 Back into the depths he plunges like a metal projectile. The slender rod bends and creaks threateningly. I am
 thrilled with the excitement of the mo-
 ment, Frank an immobile looker-on
 He knows I require neither advice nol assistance as yet. There is no surcease
 from agony in the chilly depths, and the
 big fish breaks the surface again. Here
 he launches out desperately and spins
 around with almost inconceivable speed
 I play him with the skill of the master
 who taught me. Now I give him rope
 with which to eventually hang himself
 now reel in as fast as my fingers car
 turn the small crank; -click-clicke-
 ty-click, my Shakespeare sings, as
 give him length again. have the bam-
 boos butt planted in the pit of my
 stomach, while I hold on deftly with my
 left and work the crank with my right
 My countenance must have betrayed
 my anxiety, but I preserved my equa'
 nimity always keeping the comforting
 threshing and convoluting savage of the
 lake, like all good anglers would, tau
 upon the rein.
 But the huge pick is game to the core
 and yet he soon cavorts with decreas'
 ing desperation, and his movements be. come slow and sluggish. see his long
 slender, golden shape ploughing boat
 ward near the surface. He will soon be
 mine. One more wild, frantic lunge fol
 the moss bed-one more heroic dash fol
 the deeper waters, one more swirl anG
 turn, and with sense of conquering SC. T curity, I steer him toward the boats