College Papers - 'My Lucky Strike'

 

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.

 

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