8 OLD BLACK BASS 



rushes; I am as young as the barefoot boy 

 hurrying across the meadow with his paw- 

 paw pole. 



I have my loves and my hates. No words 

 can record my aversion for the person (is 

 he man or devil?) who snares the little fish 

 under size, whose abortive selfishness leads 

 him to continue when the creel is full and 

 who catches the mother at spawning time. 

 To me he is the human wolverine, the fish 

 glutton; and for him I have loathing as 

 well as hate. 



But there is another who angles for love- 

 love of the blue-green softness of lake, love 

 of cold hurrying waters, love of the camp- 

 fire below the pines. He matches his in- 

 genuity with the cleverness of fish, and gives 

 them a chance. He knows when he has 

 caught enough, and he is tender with the 

 little ones. To him I would dedicate this 

 tale. 



In it I shall tell of Old Black Bass as I 

 have seen him on dusky evenings where the 

 whippoorwill calls. 



Old Black Bass was the leader of his 

 school. He was big of body, aggressive of 

 spirit, and bold. With him was cleverness 



