TANGLE-LEAF PAPERS. 71 
dered a little river. At the foot of the hill I 
met a man driving a team of six horses hitched 
to a wagon whereon was a saw-log sixteen 
feet long and nearly four feet in diameter. 
The log was tulip, usually called poplar in the 
West, the Zzrzodendron lulipifera of the bota- 
nists, and appeared not to have a blemish of 
any sort in it. What a grand tree it must have 
been when standing, and for how many Junes 
it had bloomed in the woods, its huge flowers 
flaming among its rich green leaves. 
For some distance my road now skirted 
the foot of a bluff along the bank of the river. 
At one point I stopped for awhile to watch 
a fisherman casting for bass. He was in a 
little skiff near the middle of the river and 
was casting down stream with a minnow for 
bait. He appeared to understand his busi- 
ness, but I got tired, and drove on before he 
caught anything; still I carried away with me 
a pleasing impression,—in my memory a pict- 
ure of the silver current breaking around the 
skiff and the tall graceful angler patiently ply- 
ing his rod and reel. What fascinating uncer- 
tainty there is in angling! What a big fish 
one is always just on the point of catching! 
As I write I have in my ears the murmur of 
every brook from Canada to the chestnut-cov- 
ered hills of North Georgia. 
Turning aside from the main road I pushed 
my tricycle up a steep, stony hill and mount- 
ing, soon found myself following the mean- 
derings of a narrow cart-way, overshadowed by 
wide-branching beech trees just beginning 
to show their leaves. A half-mile of slow 
riding brought me to a thicket of wild plum 
bushes loaded with their fragrant white 
