This kind of a
feller never goes after no fish that don't mind being ketched. He goes
fur them kinds that loves their home in the water and hates most to
leave it, and he makes it jist as hard fur 'em as he kin. What the game
fisher likes is the smallest kind of a hook, the thinnest line, and a
fish that it takes a good while to weaken. The longer the weak'nin'
business kin be spun out, the more the sport. The idee is to let the
fish think there's a chance fur him to git away. That's jist like the
cat with her mouse. She lets the little creetur hop off, but the minnit
he gits fur enough away, she jumps on him and jabs him with her claws,
and then, if there's any game left in him, she lets him try again. Of
course the game fisher could have a strong line and a stout pole and git
his fish in a good sight quicker, if he wanted to, but that wouldn't be
sport. He couldn't give him the butt and spin him out, and reel him in,
and let him jump and run till his pluck is clean worn out. Now, I likes
to git my fish ashore with all the pluck in 'em. It makes 'em taste
better. And as fur fun, I'll be bound I've had jist as much of that, and
more, too, than most of these fellers who are so dreadful anxious to
have everythin' jist right, and think they can't go fishin' till they've
spent enough money to buy a suit of Sunday clothes.
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