WOODLAND PATHS 



a battery, for it thrills you with a quick- 

 ening of life and nerve and a magical 

 alertness. 



The eel is not nearly so cautious with a 

 bob as with a hook. He nibbles, which is 

 the first shock ; he bites, which is the sec- 

 ond and stronger ; then he takes hold. I 

 can see the stout fisherman now with the 

 fire gleam on his rugged face, his feet 

 planted wide apart and his weight well on 

 the hinder one, his hands wide apart on 

 the pole and his whole attitude that of a 

 lion couchant for a back somersault. 



At the nibble his face twitches, at the 

 bite his knee bends, and then the end of 

 the pole sags quickly downward with the 

 line as taut as a violin string. The eel has 

 taken hold, his throat-pointing teeth are 

 tangled in the thread of the bob, and 

 the stout fisherman's weight has gone 



far back of his point of support. If the 

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