110 WOODLAND IDYLS. 



another is waiting to rush in while she is after 

 the first. It is only a phase of the great strug- 

 gle, a battle for life even in the egg stage. Eter- 

 nal vigilance is here as elsewhere the price of 

 success. Not one egg in ten thousand will prob- 

 ably become a mature fish for some future an- 

 gler like myself to tempt with hook and worm. 



On up I go until finally I come to a hole large 

 and deep enough for sunfish to inhabit and in 

 ten minutes three are on my string. Wading 

 the creek to some deeper holes I soon have two 

 goggle-eyes and another sunfish. 



The first time one explores a stream for small 

 fry much of the time is taken up in locating 

 the pools or holes wherein they dwell. It was 

 so to-day. I was not satisfied to remain at these 

 deep holes but went on up for a mile or more 

 seeking in vain some better ones. The stream, 

 as below, was everywhere shallow with Knob- 

 stone bottom. At the former site of an old mill 

 there was nothing left but the remains of one 

 or two logs. This was the first water-mill which 

 I saw as a boy. I well remember looking down 

 through the cracks in the floor and seeing the 

 suckers in the mill race below. How big they 

 were and what a grand place that old water-mill 

 in those days of boyhood when the world was 

 all embraced in a circle of ten miles radius. 



From here I started back fishing again the 

 deeper holes until of small fry I had a score or 



