The Unladylike Triumph of a Determined Angler

I lifted with might and main. The whisk of a finned tail, a fleeting glimpse of dusky scales and scarlet speckles became suddenly correlated in my mind with the fact that one of my boots was full of water, and my line was swinging high in the air—the hook gone, the gut leader nipped off short. It was a small work to go to the tent for the other pole. One does not expect all luck to be good luck in fishing. Back on my stone perch I flung my line into the air at random, and the bait struck the water just below the little cataract. A tug, mighty as the first, and fully as prompt, nearly lost me my balance, but it steadied my nerve. One thought, one purpose filled my mind—I must get that fish to shore. The trees on shore began to move in a circle, of which I was the center. With joy I saw my angry captive flash out of the water; then came an instant of despair. He was off—the curve on which he rose was complete, and he fell forward—right at me! The up-curve was a forlorn hope—the down-curve was perfect assurance. I knew my fish would never escape me. By all the laws of dramatic unity and poetic justice, he was mine. For in his gaping mouth I read a startling revelation. He was bringing back those two hooks! He struck the water in that little basin shut in by the three jutting rocks, and I sat down upon him! I did it calmly, and I trust with dignity, but without delay; it was the only thing to do. He was in a trap that needed but a lid. I was that lid. There I could answer my father's call, for the dazed fish had found a corner, and a groping thumb and finger had found the back of his neck. My repressed feelings broke forth in one long, ambiguous, feminine scream.