THE BATTLERS 103 



They were going to the head of the lake. 

 Inlet waters called them, cold stone-harried 

 waters from the hills. For up at the inlet 

 were the shiners, up where the current 

 pushed them from the river nooks to the 

 open lake. 



Just how Old Black Bass and his school 

 knew the head waters of the lake provided 

 the best foraging spot no man may know. 

 Perhaps a sense of direction perceived by 

 the lateral line told them, perhaps the faint 

 current created by the running water as it 

 swept into the lake. But it might have 

 been a Voice, an old Paleozoic urge that 

 turned them to feeding-ground as the an- 

 adromous salmon is lured up the cascading 

 river. 



On they swam, past old foundations 

 where homes had once stood, up hollows 

 where in the lush of the olden days the 

 cattle had browsed, around the mellowed 

 roots of old forest trees, past great bowlders. 

 Now the water was dark, now lighted by 

 the glimmer of the sun on the surface. 



In time they approached the prime feed- 

 ing-ground. But while yet afar off their 

 sense of pressure apprised them of the 



