112 BASS-FISHING IN SUNGAHNEETUK 



long cast, and, as much by luck as skill, deliver my 

 minnow, now almost at his last gasp, in the middle 

 of the concentric rings of wavelets. Scarcely has 

 his fall startled the reflections of bank, bush, and 

 grass-tuft to livelier dancing, when the surface is 

 again broken by a sullen seething, in the midst of 

 which is dimly seen the shining green broadside of 

 a bass. The time given him for gorging the bait 

 seems nearer five minutes than the quarter of one 

 during which the line vibrates with slight jerks and 

 then tightens with a steady pull as I strike, and an 

 angry tug tells me that he is fast. Now the line 

 cuts the water with a tremulous swish, and the rod 

 bends like a bulrush hi a gale, as the stricken fish 

 battles upstream in a wide sweep, then shoots to 

 the surface and three feet into the air, an emerald 

 rocket, showering pearls and crystals. I do not 

 know whether I let my "rod straighten" or "pull 

 him over into the water," but somehow he gets 

 back there without having rid himself of the 

 barbed unpleasantness in his jaw, and then makes 

 a rush downstream, varied with sharp zigzags, end- 

 ing in another aerial flight as unavailing as the 

 first. Then he bores his way toward a half-sunken 

 log, thinking to swim under it and so get a dead 

 strain on the line; but a steady pull stops him just 

 short of it. Then he sounds the depths to rub the 

 hook out on the bottom, for he is a fellow of ex- 

 pedients; but the spring of the rod lifts him above 



