English 22.
Joseph A, Cone.
1st Year Special.
Theme 1,
Due Oct. 9, 1894.
You have a
keenly observant eye and a fairly im-pressionable nature; accordingly, you need
be at no loss for material to put in good themes. Your
vocabulary is f has some range, but you
must avoid newspaper phrases and com-monplace,
trite for-mulas.Your sentences often lack unity; read Prof. Hills Rheto- ric, pp. 159 etc. Avoid attacking Do not add participial phrases at the end
of sentences gram-matically complete.
Your paragraphing is very poor. Make your paragraphs units. Know just what is
the purpose of each paragraph and keep out irrelevant details.
With good self-dis-cipline you should do
creditable work by the end of the year.
Rewrite.
L. Gates (can’t
read – name found online)
My Lucky Strike.
“Jim”
Bradbury was known for miles around for being the best fisherman in the region
of “Roger’s’, X (or ‘Norwich’) Lake”(, as it was sometimes called). hHe was a tall,
straight and powerfully built; a typical New Englander of the old school, and
as I walked by his side one frosty morning in October, long before day had
shown signs of breaking over “Wildcat Mountain”, I could not help associating You can phrase more
forcibly him in my mind with some of Cooper’s
favorite “Leatherstocking” characters. *But, ( ah! ) Connection not well made Who can ever forget, or describe even Trite
rhetorical question, the feeling which fills one’s soul to
overflowing as he steps briskly through the
woods at daybreak and 3comes suddenly Lack
of unity
upon a glassy sheet of water, beneath whose surface he has been told lurks
Grammer gamy fish,
abundant in size and number. It was to such a spot as this that “Jim” Bradbury
piloted me that morning, and contrary to his
expectations we found the boat The sentence lacks unity.
undisturbed,
in precisely the same spot he had left it but in a few days previous. It seemed
to me that everybody, old and young, called the old fisherman “Jim” Bradbury,
but in die respect to his long curly locks, which were generously sprinkled
with gray, besides his many other admirable qualities,
The phrase hangs in the air I could address him in no other
way than “Mr.” Bradbury, ( and which consideration I feel is only proper at this time ).
Omit. Þ It was
by mere accident that I became acquainted with him, and I now look upon it as
one of the most lucky accidents of my life. He having heard of my great love
for bass fishing, had sent me an invitation to accompany him to this favorite
retreat, which invitation, it is needless to say, I was most happy to accept.Ü It was but the work of a moment Trite. to
launch the light craft and soon we were gliding noiselessly in the direction of
the “middle ground”, my companion’s favorite stopping place. From certain
objects along the North, South, East and West shores he
skillfully studied out his exact location and dropped anchor. “There’” said he,
in his slow and easy-going way, “I wanter see the fun begin. Jest drop your frog out over the stern an’
I’ll guarantee you a six pounder.” “But are n’t you going to fish, also?” I
queried. “Yes, bimeby,” he replied. “I am in no hurry, for you see, I git lots
of this every fall, an’ it ain’t no treat, – but there goes your cork under
already,” and sure enough, when I looked at my line the cork was far below the
surface. I had with me an outfit of patent tackle, over which the old fisherman
had several times shook X
shaken his head, he
preferring the old-fashioned gear to any “new-fangled, slimpsy
fishin’ tools,” as he termed them. Loose He did
not understand that although the modern tackle was much lighter it was, when
properly used, more servicable Sp.
than
the old-fashioned, “white-birch-pole outfit.”
But
one could not argue long upon any subject with such a dear old soul as Mr.
Bradbury, and furthermore it sometimes seems almost a sin to try to change the
views of such an innocent old character; ideas which they have so fondly
cherished all their unvarying lives. “Better
let him chew it over a leetle longer,” said the old fisherman, as he saw my
anxiety to pull. “He is a big one,” he continued, “an’ will require
consitterbul ’tention afore you put the bottom of the boat ’twixt him an’ the
water.” Another suspense, We
cannot speak of “one suspense” and “another suspense”. then
with the line held firmly against the rod, I “struck” him, and the fun began. Yard
upon yard of braided silk flew through the guides while the humming of the reel
rivalled that of a sewing machine in full operation. Then a halt, and I began
to reel in. Slowly back he came, half way, perhaps, then another dash, further
than the first. “Watch him, watch him, he’s comin’ out!” said Mr. Bradbury, a
trifle excited, and even as he spoke the water broke and fully three feet above
the surface leaped the largest bass I had ever beheld, endeavoring by the operation, Clumsy. to
shake the hook from its mouth. The trick was useless; the hook still held
firmly, Vivid but if ever a fish deserved its
freedom, I thought, it was that one,;( for I ) never before
or since X( witnessed) a more plucky or ^have
I seen a pluckier or more skillful fight on the part of a fish to free himself. Wordy.
Back
and forth he plunged, now near, now far, but never for a moment consenting to
lie still long enough to allow us to swing a landing net under him. Fully
fifteen minutes passed before he gave up the battle, but it was not until after
the black beauty lay gasping in the bottom of the boat and I had somewhat
recovered my normal condition, that Mr. Bradbury swung his long “white birch”
over the glimmering surface.
More
sport of the same kind closely followed, and in an hour’s time it looked as
though we were going to have more than we could carry away. Neither of us
desired more than we could comfortably use, so by the time the sun peeped over
the Eastern slope, which Antecedent?
usually
put an end to good fishing, we had wound up our tackle and were ready to go
ashore.
Seven
was the number of our catch, but according to my pocket scales, the first fish
led them all in weight by two pounds, he* whirling the pointer to the nine and three quarter
mark. A good specific touch.
Omit Thus “Rogers Lake” and “Jim” Bradbury have become
very dear to me, inasmuch as they have furnished me with a story which usually takes
carries off the first prize whenever I happen to be amongst a party of “honest”
fisherman.
Joseph
A. Cone.
*This
use of the nominative absolute is to be avoided.
English
22.
Joseph
A, Cone.
1st Year Special.
Theme 1, Rewritten.
Due Oct.
30, 1894.
My Lucky Strike.
“Jim” Bradbury was said to be the best
fisherman in the region of “Roger’s’ Lake”. He was a tall, straight and powerfully built; a typical New Englander of
the old school, and as I walked beside him one frosty morning in October, long
before day had shown signs of breaking over “Wildcat Mountain”, his quaint
appearance brought to my mind that favorite “Leatherstocking” character, “Natty
Bumpo”.
Over
walls and fences we climbed, now and then entering a patch of dense undergrowth
where we received a goodly wetting from the heavily dew-laden foliage. The
meadows, too, with their wet grasses, served to lay any dust which might have
collected either without or within our heavy walking shoes. These small
pleasantries, however, which nearly always go with fishing, were forgotten in
the joy of beholding the lake. It was a long, narrow glimmer of water
resembling somewhat in shape the quarter moon. High hills rose on either side,
and the place was withal, wild and alluring.
I
had been told the lake abounded with bass, abundant both in size and number. In
fact, one individual had said, “the fish are so all-fired big, an’ they’s so
many on ’um that they often run ag’in one another an’ git ser’usly hurt, arter
which they would come tur the top so’s
a feller kin ketch ’um”.
We found the boat undisturbed, and were soon gliding
noiselessly in the direction of the “middle ground”, which was Mr. Bradbury’s
favorite stopping place. From certain objects along the shores he skillfully
studied out the exact location and dropped anchor. “There’” said he, in his
slow and easy-going way, “everything is ready, an’ I wanter see the fun begin. Jest drop your hook out over the st’arn an’
I’ll guarantee yeou a seven pounder.” “But aren’t you going to fish, also?” I
queried. “Yes, bimeby,” he replied. “but yeou see, I’m in no hurry, I git lots uv
durin’ the year, so it ain’t much uv a treat, – but there goes your cork under
already, Give him plenty uv time now.”
Surely
enough, when I glanced back at my line the cork was far below the surface. My
companion looked suspiciously at my slender rod. I had with me an outfit of
patent tackle, over which he had several times shaken his
head. “I still hang tew the ol’ fashun’ gear, he remaked; “them new-fangled,
slimpsy fishin’ tewls look purty, but they’re better fur ketchin’ shiners than
they be fur bass.” He did not seem to understand, that although the modern tackle
was much lighter it would do better service than the old-fashioned, “white-birch-pole
outfit”, when properly used, But one could not argue long upon any subject with
such a dear old soul as Mr. Bradbury. Sometimes it seems almost a sin to try to
change the views of such innocent characters; ideas and opinions they have so
fondly cherished all their unvarying lives.
“Better
let him chew it over a leetle longer,” said the old fisherman, in a half
whisper, as he saw my anxiety to pull. “He’s a big one,” he continued, “an’
will require consitterbul ’tention ’fore yeou put the bottom uv the boat twixt
him an’ the water.” Another brief wait, then with the line held firmly against
the rod, I “struck” him, and the fun began. Yard upon yard of braided silk flew
through the guides while the humming of the reel, the sweetest of all music to
the fisherman’s ear, rivalled that of a sewing machine in full operation. Then
a halt, and I began to reel in. Slowly back he came, half way, perhaps, then
another dash, further than his first. “Watch him, watch him, he’s comin’ out!”
said Mr. Bradbury, not a little excited, and even as he spoke the water broke,
and fully three feet above the surface leaped the largest bass I had ever
beheld. But the trick was useless; the hook still held firmly, and he began
maneuvering once more under the water. Never before or since have I seen a fish
make a pluckier or more skillful resistance. Back and forth he plunged, now
near, now far, but never consenting to come near enough to allow us to swing a
landing net beneath him. Fully fifteen minutes passed before he gave up the fight,
and it was not until the black beauty
lay gasping in the bottom of the boat, and I had somewhat recovered my normal
condition, that Mr. Bradbury swung his long “white birch” over the side. “Better
stuff in thet pole uv yeour’n than I thought they wuz,” he admitted, examining
it closely for the first time. “Still,” he went on, “an’ ol’ duffer like me
wouldn’ know haow tur oppyrate sech a geared-up contrivance ef he hed one.”
More
sport of the same kind followed at short intervals, and in an hour’s time it
looked as though we were going to have a boatload. Neither of us desired more
than we could comfortably carry, so by the time the sun peeped over the Eastern
slope, this usually putting an end to good fishing anyway, we were ready to go
ashore. Seven was the number of our catch, but according to my pocket scales
the first fish landed led them all in weight by two pounds, the pointer whirling
to the nine and three quarter mark.
No comments:
Post a Comment