68 THE HIVE OF THE BEE-HUNTER. 
reeking water from its scaly sides falling in soft spray 
upon the upturned eye that traces its daring course. 
But we treat of fish, and not of birds. 
Yonder is our canoe; the paddle has stopped it 
short, just where you see those faint bubbles; the water 
is very deep beneath them, and reflects the frail bark 
and its occupants, as clearly as if they were floating in 
mid air. The bowman looks into the water—the fish 
are out of sight, and not disturbed by the intrusion 
above them. ‘They are eating busily, judging from the 
ascending bubbles. 
The bowman lets fall the “heel” of his arrow on 
the bottom of the canoe, and the bubbles instantly cease. 
The slight tap has made a great deal of noise in the 
water, though scarcely heard out of it. There can be 
seen rising to the surface a tremendous carp. How qui- 
etly it comes upwards, its pectoral fins playing like the 
wings of the sportive butterfly. Another moment, and 
the cold iron is in its body. 
Paralyzed for an-instant, the fish rises to the surface 
as if dead, then, recovering itself, it rushes downwards, 
until the cord that holds it prisoner tightens, and 
makes the canoe tremble ; the effort has destroyed it, 
and without another struggle it is secured. 
When the fish first come into the lakes, they move in 
pairs on the surface of the water, and while so doing 
they are shot, as it is called, “ flying.” 
In early spring fifteen or twenty fish are secured in 
