ARROW-FISHING. 59 
however, are covered with innumerable bubbles, either 
floating about, or breaking into. little circling ripples. 
To the superficial observer, these air-bubbles mean 
little or nothing; to the arrow-fisherman they are the 
very language of his art; visible writing upon the un- 
stable water, unfolding the secrets of the depths below, 
and guiding him, with unerring certainty, in his pur- 
suits. 
Seat yourself quietly in this little skiff, and while I 
paddle quietly out into the lake, I will translate to you 
these apparent wonders, and give you a lesson in the 
simple language of nature. 
‘An air-bubble is an air-bubble,” you say, and 
“your fine distinctions must be in the imagination.” 
Well! then mark how stately ascends that large 
globule of air; if you will time each succeeding one by 
your watch, you will find that while they appear, it is at 
regular intervals, and when they burst upon the surface 
of the water, there is the least spray in the world spark- 
ling for an instant in the sun. Now, yonder, if you will 
observe, are very minute bubbles that seem to semmer 
towards the surface. Could you catch the air of the 
first bubble we noticed, and give it to an ingenious 
chemist, he would tell you that it was a light gas, that 
exhaled from decaying vegetable matter. 
The arrow-fisherman will tell you that it comes from 
an old stump, and is denominated a dead bubble. That 
‘“‘ simmering ’ was made by some comfortable turtle, as 
