BASS-FISHING IN SUNGAHNEETUK 123 



of chain-armor was being drawn through the 

 water. Now a swift bolt strikes it from beneath, 

 and a hundred shining links are driven into the 

 air. In the bubbling swirl beneath the break I see 

 the brazen mail of a bass, and a few feet upstream 

 I drop my minnow, a prey far more tempting than 

 these atoms, and no sooner seen than seized. In 

 the fight that ensues I have some trouble to lead 

 him to a fairer field and a proper place for surren- 

 der, to do which he must be got over a sort of 

 boom which serves for a water-fence, being a single 

 pole spanning the stream, in the middle sagging an 

 inch or two below the surface. Shortening my 

 line and raising the tip of the rod, I half lift, hah* 

 drag him over it, and, after some further skirmish- 

 ing, bring him to shore, and Ruisseau, wading into 

 the mud halfway to the top of his "jim rubbits" 

 to rescue him, shows himself an artist, making a 

 bas-relief in clay. 



As I range the result of my day's sport side by 

 side along the sod, a comely rank of fifteen bass 

 and one pike-perch, Ruisseau proudly remarks, 

 "I'ms guess dat ole wimmens ain't beat me, don't 

 it?" 



The sun is burning the low clouds and setting 

 the western edge of the world on fire, and so, mak- 

 ing a jail-delivery of our few remaining minnows, 

 we turn backward on our long shadows and wend 

 Qur way homeward. 



