I searched the shallows and ripples of Hickory River for miles ...  I followed Babson’s brook over the hills nearly to its source.

One day, peering through reeds into a shallow cove, I saw a fish-fin thrust up out of the water.  I crept cautiously forward.

It was a big fish that lay there.  Trembling all over with excitement, I made a mad thrust.  Then I yelled, and stamped on the fish, getting all wet in doing so.  I beat its head in with the haft of the fork.  It rolled over, its white belly glinting in the sun.  On picking it up, I was disappointed.  It had been dead for a long time; had probably swam in there to die ... and its gills were a withered brown-black in colour, like a desiccated mushroom ... not healthy red.

But I was not to be frustrated of my glory.  I tore the tell-tale gills out ... then I beat the fish’s head to a pulp, and I carried my capture home and proudly strutted in at the kitchen door.

“Look, Granma, at what a big fish I’ve caught.”

“Oh, Millie, he’s really got one,” and Granma straightened up from the wash-tub.  Millie came out snickering scornfully.

“My Gawd, Ma, can’t you see it’s been dead a week?”

“You’re a liar, it ain’t!” I cried.  And I began to sob because Aunt Millie was trying to push me back into ignominy as I stood at the very threshold of glory.

“Honest-to-God, it’s—­fresh—­Granma!” I gulped, “didn’t I just kill it with the pitchfork?” Then I stopped crying, absorbed entirely in the fine story I was inventing of the big fish’s capture and death.  I stood aside, so to speak, amazed at myself, and proud, as my tongue ran on as if of its own will.

Even Aunt Millie was charmed.

* * * * *

But she soon came out from under the spell with, “Ma, Johnnie means well enough, but surely you ain’t going to feed that fish to the boarders?”

“Yes, I am.  I believe in the little fellow.”

“All right, Ma ... but I won’t eat a mouthful of it, and you’d better drop a note right away for Uncle Beck to drive in, so’s he’ll be here on time for the cases of poison that are sure to develop.”

* * * * *

Cleaned and baked, the fish looked good, dripping with sauce and basted to an appetizing brown.

As I drew my chair up to the table and a smoking portion was heaped on my plate, Aunt Millie watched me with bright, malicious eyes.

“Granma, I want another cup o’ coffee,” I delayed.

But the big, fine, grey-haired mill boss, our star boarder, who liked me because I always listened to his stories—­he sailed into his helping nose-first.  That gave me courage and I ate, too ... and we all ate.

“Say, but this fish is good!  Where did it come from?”

“The kid here caught it.”

“Never tasted better in my life.”

None of us were ever any the worse for our rotten fish.  And I was vindicated, believed in, even by Aunt Millie.