The Wit of the Wild 



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dipper of strong netting on an iron hoop is let 

 down by tackle from the yard-arm, dipped into 

 the mass under the guidance of a man on deck 

 who holds the handle, the pony engine puffs and 

 shakes, and away aloft for an instant swings a 

 mass of bunkers, only to be upset and fall like 

 so much sparkling water into the resounding hold. 



"How many fish does the dipper lift out at 

 once?" 



"About a thousand." 



"Very well. I will count how many times it 

 goes after a load." 



But I didn't. I forgot it in looking down the 

 hatchway. 



The floor of the shallow hold was paved with 

 animated silver, and every new addition falling 

 in a lovely cataract from far overhead, seemed to 

 shatter a million rainbows as it struck the yielding 

 mass below and slid away on every side to glitter 

 in a new iridescence until another myriad of dia- 

 monds rained down. 



If you take it in your hand, the moss-bunker 

 presents itself as an ordinary-looking fish, and 

 you do not admire it; but every gleaming, fiery 



*S 278 5o 



