SI Vault
July 16, 1962
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July 16, 1962


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"I would say our first trip out was quite a success," Williams said. "I went to exactly the same place on Falcon Lake where I'd failed before. I not only got the bass and came up with better catches than anyone around me, but I got a heck of a lot of them close to the boat. But the fish weren't all that we fooled. We were setting up to cast in a cove when boats would just come tearing in toward us. Then they'd get close enough to see that that wasn't shoreline—it was a 16-foot boat. 'What ya got that stuff on your boat for?' they'd ask and I'd answer, 'You just answered your own question.'

Falcon Lake is noted for its snakes, which is why Williams keeps a .410 shotgun in his boat. The other day he had to use it on a snake that he saw swimming toward the boat, obviously with the intention of going ashore among those very attractive cattails.


William Faulkner died last week at the age of 64. We on this magazine have a particular sense of loss: when we began William Faulkner was among our first contributors. He set a standard of quality in his writing for these pages, especially on the Kentucky Derby, whose influence we like to feel still persists. He was unfailingly patient, conscientious, helpful and, in a quiet, almost retiring way, inspired in getting the maximum journalistic value from the events that he wrote about.

His major works were, of course, his intense and tragic novels, but he was a master at evoking the sights and sounds of the stables and the tracks, the amiable democracy of fishing camps, the cold November woods where a boy could shoot his first deer, or a fox hunt in the Mississippi hills with the dry, wild sound of the pine trees and the ringing, bell-like call of the hounds echoing among the trees where the hunters waited motionless on their horses in the frosty moonlight. Of William Faulkner's writing on sport it can be said confidently that it was the most light-hearted and engaging of all his work, the creation of someone who was far from finished, a beginning rather than an end.

The Minnesota Vikings of the National Football League—or those of them residing in the Twin Cities area during the summer—played the Whitaker Buick softball team of St. Paul the other day. The Vikings won at softball, 11-8, but could do no better than a 6-6 tie in a game of touch football.


Major Clark (Spots) Leaphard, one of four Britons who had been captured by Communist guerrillas in southern Laos, returned to London the other day. For a month Leaphard had been marched through the jungle with a rope about his neck. From time to time he and his fellow captives would be hog-tied and forced to kneel before their captors who, while peasants watched and listened, harangued and threatened to kill them.

But after a while the guerrillas tired of the propaganda game. The ropes around the prisoners' necks were retained merely as symbols. The prisoners just tucked the ends of the ropes into their pockets and roamed the villages freely. One day one of them picked up a bamboo stick and a lump of charcoal and suggested: "How about cricket?"

And so, deep in the Laotian jungle, Communist guerrillas were introduced to a game that has sustained the spirits of Britons wherever they have been.

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