TRIBULATIONS OF LIVE-BAIT ANGLERS 117 



But more deplorable are the conditions when 

 boys are at a premium, not to be found either 

 for love or money. We and the tackle are all ready 

 for the fray; conditions are just right and weather 

 superb. We lay down our creel and rod, and grudg- 

 ingly trudge off to the swamp in order to capture 

 the pretty little greenbacks in their native lair. 

 With a self-satisfied air we say: "It's easy enough 

 with a net!" But is it, dear brother angler.^ You 

 all know what a "divil" of a time it is, jumping, 

 running, then creeping on "all fours" with face 

 splashed with mud, cuffs — if we have them — all 

 wet and dirty; all the time muttering dire ven- 

 geance on the little animated bait fiends. We see 

 plenty, feel plenty too, but catch and hold securely, 

 we certainly do not. Meanwhile, time passes swiftly 

 by; soon the "wicked hand of time is on the sign 

 of noon," and we are still at it, still jumping, 

 nearly with the same agility as the frogs them- 

 selves. 



At this stage of the game there is this to say: 

 our temper, while not exactly at boiling pitch, 

 is quite warm enough to hunt for a pliable wand, 

 or even a thick stick that is not rotten, and so, 

 we vow, we'll catch 'em dead, if not alive. The 

 fun grows apace. If we could only see ourselves 



