A New Game Fish 



in the sunlight as it turns and quivers. In almost 

 every direction the perfect mirror of the ocean is dis- 

 turbed by schools of large fishes and no one can tell 

 what the game may be. The air is cool and delicious, 

 the only sound the cry of some distant gull or the 

 harsher protest of a bald eagle chased by king birds 

 and ravens. Off on the horizon is the perfect figure 

 of a ship under sail, really a rock, and away to the 

 east the snowy peaks of the Sierra Madre, ten or 

 twelve thousand feet in air. 



So attractive is the environment that one forgets the 

 objective, until suddenly the tip of the rod bends, leaps 

 downward, resilient, deadly. The reel sounds, blazon- 

 ing a loud acclaim on the silent air, and you are aware 

 that some marvelous thing has you, and despite your 

 best and most conscientious efforts, is tearing away 

 the thread-like line known as " number-nine," in yards, 

 varas and feet. There is no stopping it. Your thumb 

 stall plays gently on the line, and you can almost see 

 it smoke, and smoke it might if you had not wet the 

 line in advance. The slightest mistake, the least over- 

 pressure, and the game is up. 



So you dally with the line, play with it, press your 

 thumb gently upon it, as it sinks into the sea to the 

 acclaim of the reel. If you are wise in your genera- 

 tion you will have marked your line with silk ; red for 

 one hundred feet, blue for two hundred feet, and 

 yellow for three hundred feet and so on, as the fine 

 cobweb-like line melts away, and tell it not in Gath ! 



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