black bass, or his first trout, has missed a great deal of the joys of fishing. These are joys never forgotten. In his old age, the angler will recall those pleasant memories, memories that never die while life remains. The writer can recall fishing trip after fishing trip just as vividly as tho' it happened yesterday. I distinctly remember one outing in particular that I shall never forget.

Leisurely we paddled the small boat up the silently flowing Licking River, nothing intervening to pleasure or peace of mind on the way.

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"Gosh, this is a darned sight better'n pining away back there in town, isn't it?" chimes Doc.

"Those are exactly my sentiments, old top," I answered.

So we paddled on, finally reaching the mouth of Raven Creek, fishing waters long noted in local history.

With a few deft strokes of the oars, Doc had the craft in a good position in the center of the creek where it emptied its crystal flow into the broad waters of the Licking; then we fished down stream, the current carrying our floats, or corks, swiftly toward the river.

This is the season when artificial bait is used in this region. Earlier it would have been useless to use flies, or spinners, as the waters that flow through the level portion of the State are very muddy during the rainy season. Nothing less than live minnows, crawfish, angleworms, or "devils" would attract a denizen of the deep during that period.

Now, however, late in summer, the rains abated and the water was clear as that of a mountain torrent, and so flies and spinners were in order.

I distinctly remember every detail of the trip. It comes back to me as a vivid dream, only more real, of course. Doc was the first to land his quarry. It was a whopping black bass of the species "Micropterus dolomieu," a small-mouth. Submarines weren't in the running

at all in comparison with that bass. It sure was some sprinter. Doc finally brought it to creel, however, after a lengthy argument during which it was uncertain who would win the joint debate.

The next one tied on to my line. And it was one of those fellows with a head full of fish sense. He struck right out toward the boat, accumulating the necessary slack line, then, with a mighty "flop, skip, and a jump" leaped clear of the water and began shaking himself, trying to all intent and purposes to shake the dratted hook out of his mouth, but I saw what was up and gathered in the slack, forestalling his bold attempt to escape. The effort of the fish, tho' vain, was oft repeated, and more than once before I finally plunked him safe aboard boat it looked like he had things "all his own way with a down-hill pull. Gee! but it was a plumb beauty, too. Tipped the scales evenly at four pounds, one ounce. Some fish for these waters, and every inch a fighter.

But there was a comic role to be played that eventful day, and as fate would have it, Doc was the "goat." He had been watching me land the prize with a jealousy ill concealed, and when finally he got another strike he bent all his energies to landing the fish that he hoped would outweigh and outdo mine.

He grasped the rod with both hands, thumb firmly in place against the reel, all ready to snag Mr. Fish.

Whow-whizz! wh-r-rrr! sang the reel, as the big fish went on his way liberty-bound. Finally, after successive efforts, Doc turned him and then began the reeling in process, ever watchful lest the fish should suddenly buckjump, or create slack line by running toward the boat.

When the specimen was finally got on board ship, after much effort and time, what do you reckon it proved to be?

I looked at Doc and Doc looked at me. I was giggling, he was frowning. Boys, he had caught a bloomin' waterdog! I shall never forget the look of gloom and utter dis

gust on his face. Of course, this was my queue to accord him the "horse-laugh," which I forthwith did.

But I had yet to learn the truth of that time-worn adage that, "he who laughs last laughs best." It was my turn next to land something, which I was most certain was a member of the finny tribe of the black bass species. But it was not. What I landed was a dum-goozled old hardshell turtle..

This was Doc's time to laugh, and he laughed so hard tears stood out on his cheeks. It was me that was the "goat," after all.

Memories of outings on the rivers and lakes come back to each of us, as does this memory of that fishing trip up the Licking River with my friend Doc. Nothing can erase such pleasures from the human memory. They will be recalled, perhaps, in days of stress and worry, and serve as a tonic, mayhap, to many an old man that has commenced the journey down the western slope of life. He will find new strength to buoy him up in his declining years as he remembers the glowing days of his youth and manhood, when with rod and reel and tackle-box he wended his way joyfully down by the old mill-stream, or to the meadowbrook, or beside the lake, there to while away pleasant hours, enticing choice specimens of the cool depths therefrom by the employment of his angling art.

Art it is indeed! It takes pure, unadulterated art to make a successful fisherman, whether your tackle be simple in construction, or magnificently modern. Here is another thought: "It is not clothes that make the man, so neither is it tackle that makes the angler. It is his art and his ability to apply that art that counts most. Good tackle, of course, is indispensable, but of itself it avails nothing. Placed in the hands of one not accustomed to the ways of the wily trout, the mighty salmon, the battling black bass, tackle is nil, but placed in the hands of the natural-born sportsman, educated to the ways of the craft,

good tackle avails much-it spells success in the angling game.

The Anti-Back Lash Reel:

The back-lash, which occurs so persistently when using an ordinary reel, has done more to discourage the sport of bait casting than even that oft mooted question: "Why don't they bite?" After the beginner has wrestled with a good old fashioned back-lash for a dozen minutes, more or less, right at a time when he knows his bait should be working and finally does get it untangled only to have it occur again on the next cast, it's not strange that he becomes discouraged. In fact there is not a bit of doubt but what the back-lash has kept many promising candidates from becoming disciples of Isaak Walton.

Those who have not the time, nor patience, to attain the necessary skill required to manage an ordinary reel will find an easy solution for the problem in the South Bend Anti-Back-Lash Reel.

This reel obviates entirely the necessity of thumbing the spool in casting. The caster has only to learn to throw the bait properly; the carrying out of the line and the speed of the spool factors are taken care of automatically by the reel itself. In other words, the reel thumbs itself with a greater precision and accuracy than can be done by the most expert seasoned angler.

Think what an invention of this kind means! It means that the city man, who longs for the joys and thrills of casting for big fish, does not have to cast for years and years to learn to do it successfully. It means that any man, woman or child who can hold a fishing rod may enjoy all the pleasures experienced by the seasoned angler, the very moment this reel is made part of the equipment.

Aside from furnishing a solution for the beginner's greatest problem, this reel has advantages which appeal