When is a sheep not a sheep? When it's dead; then its mutton. A pig, likewise, becomes pork, a steer is beef, and a deer becomes venison. When is a man not a man? When he acts sheepish, makes a pig of himself, gives a friend a bum steer, and beefs about everything.
Friend of mine called the other day to inquire if my fishing luck really is as bad as I make it appear in this column. Having only recently read my No. 2 son's fishing diary, and therein finding encouragement, I told him, it is not.
But after giving a good imitation of a man suffering from St. Vitus' dance while braving the gusts on the shores of Norris Lake, meanwhile catching one fish which I promptly returned to the warmer expanse of said lake, I must make a re-appraisal of the situation.
It appears that I am among, if not in the lead of the more unfortunate ones. We froze on the lake, then froze to the shore. Ĺnd, back in a cabin, built strictly for summer habitation, we froze some more. When I got home the wife found that one of my socks had been burned in three places, in the vicinity of the hock, and now I am wondering if that happened while I was so numb I had lost all sense of pain.
The only real casualty, however, was “Red” Osborne, who seems to have bedded down with a wasp, which had frozen out of his nest, on the wall, and made his way to a warmer spot among the blankets. In the middle of the night, friend Osborne announced to all who would listen, that feeling had returned to him. He had just been stung on the cheek. He didn't wait to turn the other.
Sunday morning, when we started home, the sun shone brightly, the lake was calm-or should I say, worn out from all its restless tossing of the two preceding days and nights?
Tip to fishermen: If you want to be assured of good weather, go fishing when I go home.
Gordon “Red” Moore received a letter from “The Millionaire,” the other day and with it came a million-dollar check. The letter solemnly warned him never to divulge the identify of his benefactor. It pointed out that he was being so richly endowed because he had been recommended as an “outstanding” young man, a connoisseur of the better things of life, a patron of the arts, a fisherman of great skill, kind and lovable, a protector of the faith, champion of the cause, highly skilled in trades unknown, and a faithful member of the Mickey Mouse Club.
A postscript read: “In order to remain anonymous, I am leaving the check (enclosed) unsigned. Just present to any bank-they have all the money.”
HE NEEDS A PSYCHIATRIST
I have just completed reading a column-length feature in a daily newspaper, which tells all about the ailments of dogs. It says here the day is past when dogs die only of distemper, worms, or old age. Now they are heir to most of the diseases of humans. Veterinarians now say man's lord and master comes down with such ills as heart disease, tonsillitis, encephalitis, gastritus, fungi allergies, infections. And, they add, your dog may be suffering from a neurosis.
That last one is an eye-opener for me. My dog apparently knew all along what he needed but I didn't. This explains why he insists on stretching himself, full length, on every couch he spies.
When the great finals come, each one will be asked five questions:
First: What did you accomplish in the world with the power that God gave you?
Second: How did you help your neighbor, and what did you do for those in need?
Third: What did you do to serve God.
Fourth: What did you leave in the world that was worthwhile when you came from it?
Last: What did you bring into this new world which will be of use here?
-J. Stanley Durkee