Wisconsin magazine of history: Volume 39, number 1, autumn, 1955

              by Don McNeil
Ever ^et bit by a fish? It certainly gives you a gnawing feeling that something is wrong.
All you people who just like wild fanciful fish stories don't bother to read further. But you who want to hear the unfailing, infallible truth about some very mysterious goings on in the aqueous depths of a certain lake here in Wisconsin, stay with me.
One day this summer the Director and I took our wives to the dedication of the restored Milton House. After the ceremonies, which were held outside, we took a pleasant trip through the rooms, up the spiral staircase into the charmingly outfitted bedrooms and down the tunnel which served as the escape hatch for slaves using the Underground Railroad prior to the Civil War. We marveled at the tremendous amount of energy and enthusiasm which had gone into this restoration and the skill with which the devoted members of the Milton Historical Society had sustained the interest of their community over a period of years in the project.
It was a warm day and following the talks, the tour, and the chat with many friends from other parts of the State who were in town for the occasion, the four of us decided to take a swim in nearby "Clear" Lake. It was Sunday, and we just happened to have our bathing suits in the car.
Well, the lake was nice and after ten min¬ utes of exercise in the water, my three com¬ panions were resting and sun-bathing on a raft about 100 yards from shore. I had just bellyflopped off the diving board and was nearing the raft when all of a sudden I felt
something nibble me on the papilla. I there¬ upon set the world's record for reverse diving. I exploded straight out of the water, high into the air and landed on the raft.
"Something bit me," I exclaimed breath¬ lessly.
My companions scoffed. In vain I looked for tell-tale teeth-marks. My wife ascribed it to a vivid imagination worked up by the stirring events of the day. They began to talk of sea- dragons and snapping turtles and underwater nymphs—even of mermaids.
So, with gentle jeers sounding in my ears we drove back into Milton. As we awaited the pageant performance that night (it was later rained out, but we heard excellent re¬ ports of it on other nights) we stopped to re¬ fuel at a gas station on the edge of town. While the attendant made out the credit card. Cliff thought he'd have a little fun.
"Ever bothered in these lakes by snapping turtles or the like," he asked with a big know¬ ing smile.
"No, but the fish sure do bite you some¬ times," came the astounding reply.
By the time Cliff got the whole story, I was practically prone on the floor, weak from vio¬ lent laughter. The fellow said he never believed it either until a couple of years ago he had been munched upon by the lake dwellers. I was very grateful to him. I don't mind being the bill of fare for some foul fish. But to en¬ dure the masticating attempts and then not be believed is just too much for me to swallow. I'll always conjure up a different imagery when someone remarks how well the fish are biting.
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