GOIN’ FISHIN’
“‘IT’S NOTHIN’ BUT A SNAG!’”
GOIN’ FISHIN’
IT was twenty feet long, and cost ten cents—a whole week’s keeping-the-woodbox-filled wages. To select it from amid its sheaf of fellows towering high beside the shop entrance summoned all your faculties and the faculties of four critical comrades, assisted by the proprietor himself.
“That’s the best of the lot,” he encouraged, not uninfluenced by a desire to be rid of you.
So you planked down your money, and bore off the prize; and a beautiful pole it was—longer by three feet, as you demonstrated when they were laid cheek by jowl, than that of your crony Hen.