142 Recreations of a Sportsman 



and I mentally measure that trout as the big- 

 gest fish ever seen in any pool; but in trying to 

 fix its exact size, remember Pope's lines which 

 hit the imagination with a dull, muffled knell : 



A wit 's a feather, and a chief a rod, 



An honest man 's the noblest work of God. 



It was not the biggest fish, but it was big 

 enough, and the bamboo bent fiercely, whipping 

 the air as it made a rush across the laguna del 

 Carmelo, turned in sight of the sandy shore, and 

 went whirling into the air, frightening a snipe 

 and putting a mud-hen to flight, tumbling down 

 like a beam of silver to go skittering along for 

 a second, then stop, sulk, and away again, send- 

 ing volley after volley of those things the angler 

 feels, but has no name for, up the rod; things 

 that make the heart jump and throb, send joy 

 and fear rushing up the spinal column cheek by 

 jowl; then away up the laguna it goes, taking 

 line, the little reel protesting, screaming, laugh- 

 ing down in its silver throat somewhere. Surely 

 Junipero Serra, Crespi, Palon, Lasuen, Amurrio, 

 de la Pena, and others enjoyed this sport; at 

 least, let us hope they did. 



The trout made a splendid run for the mouth 

 of the laguna in a desperate rush for freedom; 

 but it was of no avail, the little reel, the bend 

 of the rod are too much, and the game came 



