110 BASS-FISHING IN SUNGAHNEETUK 



Indeed he is, and I breathe a silent prayer for 

 him and myself as I impale the little wretch just 

 forward of the dorsal. May a big bass take him 

 speedily, and may I be forgiven for my cruelty! 

 This baiting the hook is the wickedness of fishing 

 that one is sorry for. Five minutes later one is apt 

 to be angry with the tortured, gasping wretch be- 

 cause he does not swim deeper. This one is most 

 obedient to my wishes, and at once sounds the 

 depths, where I tenderly cast him just under the 

 bank at my feet. The slack of the line is slowly 

 taken up, till I can feel the faint tug of his laborious 

 swimming, and with bated breath I watch and 

 wait to feel the stronger tug of a bass seizing him. 

 It does not come, and I cast again and again, far 

 and near, with no stronger responses, till it begins 

 to grow doubtful whether there are any bass here, 

 or, at least, any hungry ones. 



I lose interest a little in the water, and take time 

 to note how thickly the dandelions are dotting the 

 grass and setting in their gold the amethyst tufts 

 of violets; how the bobolinks are rollicking over 

 them and the sparrows trilling their happy songs; 

 how busy the robins are with their nest-building, 

 their short play-day already ended; then how all 

 these marginal thickets of alder and willow are 

 bent downstream with the stress of the spring 

 floods, and even the topmost twigs are clothed 

 with knots of begrimed leaves and looped wisps of 



