"Going fishing" has never had the same heart swelling interest as in the olden days. The Chariton River is a much bigger stream down in the "Davy Evans" mountains than it is when it languidly passes by Bailey's brick yard, and Alpine scenes offered nothing more of grandeur. Almost every Saturday afternoon, in the summer time, after a week of daily trudging over the hills to burlesque of a district school, or spent under the burning sun suckering corn, our elders took us to the river to bait for big fish. Fishing was better in those days before the river filled up with mud and a fine string of "eats" was usually the result. Then we would go bathing in the turbulent stream and a swing from shore to shore on grape vines, cut loose at the bottom. Occasionally the o'er head moorings would give way and a splash below followed, but who cared for that so long as mud turtles didn't lay hold -- for when they did they wouldn't let go 'till it thundered, but with all his experience! the writer does not call to mind a boy that had to stand in the creek until a volley was fired from Heaven to make the turtle relax his hold. It was a happy, free life. After all we may have missed a whole lot of fun by not being savages. Who knows?" * * * * * * * * *