THE LITTLE PICKERELS 



"rest," I cast again and reeled in slowly. He struck, 

 and the lithe rod, built especially for such baby casting, 

 set the hook firmly without any effort on my part. 

 The battle was on. Yes, it was a battle. Snags above 

 and below offered the fish safe refuges, provided he 

 could reach them ; then, too, the rod weighed a scant 

 three ounces. The initial cast was something like loo 

 feet. The odds were all in the fish's favor. Not caring 

 if I lost him, I could bend all my energies to playing in 

 the most approved manner. Right there lies the great 

 attractivity of such angling — the playing. The fish 

 itself is of no importance. In due time I lifted the 

 little fellow from the water and, with a sharp knife- 

 blade thrust through the spine just back of his head, 

 ended his career. Back of me were the women with 

 waiting fry-pans. 



We separated. I fished up- and my friend down- 

 stream. The river was alive with pickerel and I 

 thoroughly enjoyed the sport. It was the game of 

 childhood reversed. Instead of playing at being a 

 man, I was playing at being a boy. The day grew 

 unaccountably hot, with a continuous mutter of thun- 

 der in the west and north. The air was perfectly still ; 

 not a ripple disturbed the surface of the little pools, 

 while even the ever-trembling leaves of the asp forgot 

 to shiver. Awesome thunderheads, shading from pure 

 white above to blackest nimbus below, appeared above 

 the treetops. I spent little time studying the heavens. 

 The pickerel were feeding, and that was enough for 

 me. The sky became dark and thunder boomed and 

 crashed around me. I was a fool, I am willing to 

 admit now, but I fished on. 



Perhaps I was half a mile above the party, when I 

 51 



