Joe Wayring At Home Or the Adventures of a Fly Rod

I have hooked, at one cast, and successfully landed, two black bass, weighing together eight and a quarter pounds I have so often been dumped in the cold waters of mountain lakes and streams that it is a wonder my ferrules were not rusted out long ago I have been dragged about among snags and lily-pads, by enraged trout, pickerel and bass I have been stolen from my lawful owner, been kept a prisoner by boys and tramps who either could not or would not take care of me, and one of my joints has been broken. Of course, I was skillfully patched up, but, like the man whose arm has been fractured, I am not quite as good as I used to be, and am reluctant to exert all my strength for fear that I shall break again in the same place. I cant throw a fly as far as I could when I took my finest string of trout in front of the sportsmens home at Indian Lake, and when I am called upon to make the attempt, my ferrules groan and creak as if they were about to give away and let me fall to pieces. For this my master laid me up in ordinary that is what sailors say of a war vessel when she goes out of commission, and is laid up in port to remain idle there until her services are needed again, saying, as he did so, that my days of usefulness were over, but that he would keep me for the good I had done. After having led an active life among the hills, lakes and forest streams almost ever since I could remember, you may be sure that I did not relish treatment of this sort...