1 8 OLD BLACK BASS 



over the surface, sending soft waves to lap 

 the shore, catching up riffles far out and 

 causing them to leap and fall like tiny 

 whitecaps. 



Water-bugs form in groups near the shore 

 and swim indolently, their black glossy 

 backs like ebony buttons on a plush table. 

 Water Striders hop awkwardly about, 

 and the Ephemerid flies low over the water. 



Of evening there is about the whole lake 

 the mysterious air of life. Gnats drop into 

 the water to be snapped up by smaller fry. 

 From 'way up in the river inlet the bullfrog 

 croaks a hoarse mating call. Trees cast a 

 darkening shadow, then none at all. The 

 hum of insects is in the air. A luckless moth 

 drops down, and instantly there is a swirl 

 of water and the open mouth of a great bass. 

 A long pickerel, tapering as an Indian bow, 

 leaps up and disappears, leaving scarcely a 

 ripple behind. 



It was on this lake, and in a cove of it, 

 that the mother bass, her spawning over, 

 left her family. The bottom here tapered 

 gently to the shore. A great bowlder, half 

 out of water and near the bank, provided 

 crannies and a cool shade. A small white 



