The Chronicle-star combined with the Moss Point advertiser., 1947-06-27
&ss*!saf N I!ElIKl!ll!llltES
By NOLLE I. ROBERTS

Last Friday afternoon, we
went fishing. II was a most
successful fishing trip. We
didn't intend to catch any fish
and we nearly succeeded. The
one trout we shared was large
enough to keep, as long as the
game warden was nowhere in
sight, and too little to eat.
Some of you dyed-in-the-
wool, get-your limit-or-b u S {,
fish-every-weekend anglers
might have thought the trip a
flop. Not at all. We chartered
no boat, made no plans, bought
no bait, and wasted no tackle
except a couple of hooks of the
dozen-for-a-nickle variety.
We didn't even waste any
time. 1t was raining anyway.
too wet for working and too
gloomy for conversation. 1t
was a fine day for fishing for
we happy people who fish for
reasons bthef than catching
fish.
This expedition involved a
trip on foot from our Dads
home north of Vancleave to
Pritchitt Landing on the Pasca-
goula River, about one mile
away. We spent more time
trying to rig up two poles and
lines than we did fishing. It's
hard to remember where you
put your tackle when you came
in from that fishing trip last
Labor Day.
Cooper Gamblin, a neighbor
who lives on our Grandfather's
old place, decided to go along
and take up some catfish lines
he had put out several weeks
before. Had he been going
along to fish, we would prob
ably have had better luck for
he is one of the best. But he
only furnished the poles for
us and helped dig some earth
worms down by the barn. We
dug a handful and had enough
Tor twenty-five fishermen of
our skill and determination.
We walked off in the midst
of a doWnpour while our wives
explained to the children that
we were living examples of
men who not only had too lit
tie sense to come in out of the
rain but actually left a dry
shelter deliberately to go out
in it.
The old log road from our
Dads place. through the Bail
ey pasture to Pritehitt Land
ing, is as beautiful as we have
ever seen. Particularly as you
start down the first long hill
a half mile from the landing.
Giant pine and hardwood
trees have been spared there,
perhaps because of their in
accessibility. They tower a hun
dred feet above you and their
branches grow together high
above the old road. Sunlight
seldom finds its way to the
floor of the swamp and the
leaves and pine .nefdles OF
many seasons lay a carpet for
your feet.
As a boy, it filled us with a
sense of mystery and adven-
ture and we used to wonder
what wild animals lurked in
its gloomy depths. Now it
seems peaceful beyond any
thing we have ever known. We
feel that once, before the
white man came, all of this
county in this section must
have been like this. And that
the great silence and peace
that fills these acres must have
extended over all the land.
But the marks of an advanc-
ing civilization are there in the
log roads now long unused.
The straining feet of oxen and
the wide-rimmed eight wheels
of log wagons have left their
mark. On the two hills, the
road has cut into the bank
as much as ten or twelve feet
in some places. But the trail
no longer seems a scar on the
face of the earth.
II seems like an echo of
the swamper's call, the last
faint note fading into the end
less acres and timeleSs soli-
tude of the great flat land.
The road winds on down
the two hills and energies at
the Mill Greek, a stream of
cold, clear, spring water from
the hills that feeds into the
river. The flat landing. once a
grassy slope owe which great
logs were rolled, is now over
grown with briars and willows