F L Y-F ISHING IN THE SCHUYLKILL RIVER 



afternoon, Jim Bean came rushing into my room, 

 crying out, 



" ' I never seed the bass so thick they 're jump- 

 ing down at the dam like wildcats on a frolic. Rig 

 up, old man, and tackle 'em.' 



" I could n't resist, and was soon on my way to 

 the dam, as likely and lovely a stretch of fishing- 

 water as ever I laid my eyes on. Sure enough, the 

 bass were there, and they all seemed to be on a 

 bender, holding a wake or something like it; for 

 they were bobbing and jumping in and out of the 

 water as thick as whirligig beetles on top of it. The 

 big ones seemed to act lazy-like, as they rolled in 

 and out like porpoises at play, and the smaller 

 fellows were as skittish as young kittens. They 

 would come two or three feet out of the water and 

 turn somersaults one after another, and I swear 

 bluntly that I saw one, about fifteen inches long, 

 make a dash at a swallow that swooped down after 

 an insect fluttering close to the water. Others, 

 again, would swim leisurely along in shoals, with 

 their dorsal fins sticking out of the water, then in a 

 jiffy down heads and disappear, all the world 

 like a crowd of schooling minnows when fright- 

 ened by a splash or from some other cause. The 

 river was, in fact, boiling and foaming with the 

 antics of those fish, and it took me but a few 

 moments to joint my rod and get at them. 



" Now comes the strangest part of my story. I 



79 



