The Fishing of tbe Free Folk 89 



loose the worms. Why, I don't know, but sooner 

 or later those worms will get loose, and you'll hear 

 about every single worm. So far as I know, only 

 women, mice, bumble-bees, and those small, jumpy 

 grass-frogs thoroughly understand the mysteries of 

 a girl's short skirts. It is sad, but so. 



Where a couple of ancient bars mark the faintly 

 defined path, we leave the road and pass between 

 twin snarls of briers and saplings down to the river 

 bank. At the end of the path is a goodly cove, 

 deep and still dug by the chafing current, which, two 

 springs ago, undermined the stately basswood which 

 now lies, hugely heavy and dark, in its cool, green 

 tomb. A black, well-like hole shows between the 

 rotting roots and their old anchorage, and the unerr- 

 ing instinct of the free folk tells me 'tis a likely spot 

 for a swart rock-bass or an overgrown " sunny." 



The girl meekly places the basket upon the 

 ground, and I make ready the rods. The lighter 

 and shorter one is rudely ornamented with long 

 spirals and stars cut in the smooth bark. Either I 

 was in an unusually kindly mood, or I had just com- 

 pleted a shrewd dicker for a new knife when I took 

 all that trouble. " Bait up ! " I order, with the curt 

 savageness of a chief of the free folk; but the sole 

 response is an appealing glance from the big fawn- 

 like eyes. " Dern a girl, anyhow," I mutter as I 

 rapidly loop on a couple of pretty fair worms, after 

 sagely picking over some much better ones which 

 surely will go on the other hook. The girl makes 

 no comment she couldn't, for her mouth is all 

 pursed up, and she is working her jaws like a rabbit 

 chewing a short straw. 



