SALMON' trout, caught in the ice cold waters of Crow Lake, Ontario — baked as only pard can do it — causes me to day dream. Day dream of the days, when, as a barefoot youngster of seven or eight I would take my little old cotton line, not much better than
a cotton thread, tie it to a piece of a limb that was crooked and rough, and with some fish worms in my pocket — we didn't call them angle worms — start for my favorite fishing hole in the Whetstone
Creek. Morrow Coufity, Ohio — by the way, only about four or five miles from where President Harding was born. I would sit on the bank and watch that cork, taken from one of Father's medicine bottles, and whenever it disappeared I would make an effort to land my prize. I am safe in saying that the line had as many knots as there were feet in its length. Remember that was over fifty years ago, and where the Whetstone was then quite a stream of water, today it is but a dry gravel bed. You ask what I caught?