m&M: - Pennsylvania Fish and Boat Commission

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When its owner was turning it over to a boy, directed
to "go catch me some frogs on red flannel," Harrison awoke
in near nausea.
Right then in the darkness he realized that the most
purposeful thing left in the sunset of his life was to dispose
properly of his masterpiece. Long and hard he mulled
over the possibilities. He knew many anglers personally
and a host of others by reputation or through business,
but he couldn't pick the logical recipient with a sure
"He's the one!"
The long rectangle of the window near the foot of his
bed was just not quite black when the plan came. He
would explain the situation and ask advice in a form letter
to all the anglers on his mailing list. It took, at last, this
expression—which after all was Boyd Harrison at his most
natural.
Dear Sir:
Over two-score years ago I built a rod for my son. It
was made from the finest piece of cane that ever came
my way, and the design and workmanship were the best
I have been capable of producing.
It was God's will that Frank should never use the rod.
As a memorial to him I wish to place it in the most deserving
and appropriate hands. I would appreciate any
suggestion you might have to offer.
Good fishing,
Boyd Harrison
Responses came from many quarters. Each earned his
study. They varied widely in nature and tone. Many
writers felt the pathos of the request; a few missed it
completely.
Some thought the rod should be a museum piece, and
others believed it should be offered as a prize of a specified
sort. A number suggested that the rod should be sold, and
fabulous offers came, as a matter of course.
One day a letter arrived from an old fishing crony. Its
detailed information was startling. Harrison reread it
many times, musing on past days shared by the bright
waters. Apparently he had found his man before it was
too late. He must meet him.
When Frank Hunter turned out of Pennsylvania's Cumberland
Valley the eastern sky was less dark than total
night. As his car hummed along that Sunday the day
became as blue as a sapphire. At Roscoe the sun played
on the weather-beaten boards of the covered bridge, some
loose planks casting deep shadows. In the sparkling water
stood some anglers.
"Too many slingers of hardware."
For fleeting moments he had visions of a time before
his birth. The current tugged at the waders of a delicate
little man who faced upstream and cast in the air a gooo
deal—Theodore Gordon. Then there was a tall, leafl>
t
bearded figure—Hiram Leonard." Wobbly Edward Hewitt
dapper George La Blanche, 10 stocky Roy Steenrod," kee* 1
Emlyn Gill 12 , and a host of others passed in review. Th' s
was the Temple, these imagined figures the patron saint*'
A great artist should do justice to this spot."
At Liberty, Frank found the Harrison home. As l> e
crossed the cobblestones to the porch he saw sitting ther e
a gaunt old man. From under a silvery thatch, eyes aS
piercing as an eagle's appraised him.
"I'm Frank Hunter, I've come to pay the respects ot
Adam Beck to Mr. Harrison."
The long frame stirred with difficulty and the man wa s
on his feet. As the deeply lined face lighted up, Fralf
grasped the hard, bony hand.
"I was never so glad to see anyone in my life! So you 1 ^
Adam's young friend, Boy. And how is Adam these days-
"Mr. Beck is in fine health, sir, fishing every day of *J
season. He's a remarkable man and a wonderful angler-
"Yes, a remarkable man and a dedicated angler. $ l
down; make yourself comfortable. I suppose you
I sent for you?"
"I'm afraid I don't understand, sir, I came at Mr. Beck s
suggestion, to convey to you his best wishes."
"Well ... I see. Then Adam explained nothing to y" 11 '
You must have unbounded confidence in him to make suci 1
a trip with so little cause."
"The reasons are great, Mr. Harrison. I'm honored t0
meet his friends, you and Mr. Leisenring, and I wan te
to see the Neversink and Beaverkill."
Frank felt as if those sharp eyes were looking right i n '
side him.
The lined old face brightened in wonder. "I can
hardb'
believe what I see. The same sharp violet eyes, the cuw
blondish hair, the husky frame with the chest that w aS
so deep even when he was just a little fellow! An op el1
face, sincerity, unqualified confidence in friends. Yes, ev ef>
the same initials and the same birth date. . . . You re
exactly as I'd picture my boy—if he were here toda>''
Providence has taken a hand."
Frank Hunter's embarrassment ended as the past worf**
turned to the present. "But I'm forgetting my courtesy>
Harrison was apologizing, "and you're an honored gu eS
indeed." He motioned Frank through the hall and into *
lived-in room with mantel bearing a pair of mounts' 1
trophies—noble trout they were—and walls hung wi^
yellowed photographs of days along clean waters, fa^ e
prints, but in them the currents still wound their wreath
and the faces still smiled.
"Son, there's something you must have." Harrison swun»
open an oak cabinet's finely fitted door and with suf
reach brought out a long round tube. r
"I call it Excelsior. It's the rod of my Frank, the best
could ever build—and never used. Take it, my boy; en) 0 '
it; use it often, as you both deserve."
"I—I don't know how to thank you," Frank stammere •
"I'll certainly cherish this rod." Then, as the stunn^
feeling passed, he added, gently, "In due time my "^
Sonny will do the same."
PENNSYLVANIA ANGL E*