Abilene weekly reflector., 1918-12-26
Some Fall
Fishing
G3G
BY c. B. LEWIS

ESsSseSsSsSsssssssssSSsesscssssS
Copyright, 1918. by the Mcclure Newspa-
per Syndlcate)
The doctor in the city had told Miss
Gertie Ashford to stay In the country
rs long as she could, on account Of
the state of her throat, and that was
why she was yet at her grandmoth-
er's when mid-September came.
1t hadn't been a very lively summer
for the girl. She had taken long
walks. She had fused with the old
fashioned flowers; she had sought In
vain to win the confidence of the
chlpmunks and rabbits which came
about, and she had hunted for quAils'
nests in the wheat fields. There was
one sport, however, she had not par
ticipated in. There was creek me
| anderjng its way over the country AID
crossing the highway few rods be-
low the house, and in that creek were
fish Mt least as long as her finger. Size
| knew It, because she had seen them
and because neighbours boy twelve
years old had told her:
"Why. of course there are fish
slathers and slathers of 'em, and they
are aehn' to be cotehed, jest as cat
aches for cream. Haven't hauled out
more'n hundred this summer"
but | was taught in Sunday school
that it was wicked TO catch fish," was
protested.
"Humphl Would we have Goldfish
cakes if folks didn't go a-fishin'?"
The boy rugged up line and pole
for her, and Miss Gertie went fishing.
He stood on the bank with her for
while to advise:
"Now, lower your hook !"
"Now, stop wobbling the poleT'
"Now, don't you dare breathep
"Now, shet you eyes and say your
prayers, for there's fish as long as
a rail comm for your hook !"
When half an hour had passed and
the fisher hadn't had nibble yet, the
boy wandered away in disgust. At
the end of the second half-hour Miss
Gertie said to herself:
II know why / don't have any luck.
It's because the fish can see me. I'll
play trick on them"
Thereupon she stuck the end of the
pole into the bank and left the hook
to do its own fishing while she retired
to the house for a rest. Ferrers
Yorke, the author and artist, was
planning a new story. The opening
chapters would tell of a meadow, a
brook, bridge and a pretty girl, and
the girl would be fishing in that brook.
The author was great on local color,
and he had come out into the country
to find the spot thaI another would
have to imagine. He was quite sure
that he could find all but the girl with
q fishEole in her hands, and there was
one chance in thousand that he
would find her. He had discovered
two or three brooks, bridges and
meadows when his search brought him
to the willows opposite to where Ger.
tie stood.
A rash young man would have
stalked out of the bushes with hello
and wave of his hat, and waded the
brook and asked how many fish had
been caught, and how many had got
away. Mr. Yorke was not rash. He
did not betray his presence among the
willows. Not that he was SPY by
nature, but that, having found his
heroine he must study her bit.
The heroine of a story must have
auburn hair which the sunshine turns
to gold.
She must have a neck like a swan,
though not as long.
She must have Grecian nose-not
the sort YOU see around the Greek
restaurants of New York, but one
made to order in Athens and sent on
packed in pink cotton.
Her eyes must be like stars. The
stars worn by constables are ex-
cluded from the contest.
Her form must be divine, which
means it must not be nodded on the
lines of q sack of flour.
She must have twinkling feet.
She should sing as she fished.
Did the girl across the creek from
the artist fill the bill? Yes, ard more.
She was a sylph-a houri-an angel.
With her for a heroine that story
would go like buckwheat cakes on
winters morning Even when she be-
came discouraged about the fish and
turned away with a shrug of her
shoulders, he was delighted with the
shrug.
An artist and an author has two
souls, as we all know. One is dream
soul. and can hear the whispers Of the
angels with every breeze that blows
through a patch of bull-thistles-the
other gives him a proper appetite for
a boiled dinner.
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