THE BLACK BASS AS A GAME FISH. 383 



Beware the bending bushes on the brink ; 

 Touch no branch, nor twig, nor leaf disturb, 

 For the finny tribe is wary. 



Rest we here, awhile. 

 Behold the scene ! Above the ripple, 

 Sparkling and dancing in the morning sun. 

 At your feet the blue-eyed violet, shedding 

 Sweet perfume, and nodding in the breeze. 

 The red-bird, ablaze, and with swelling throat 

 Chants loud his song, in yonder thick-set thorn. 

 The dreamy, droning hum of insects' wings, 

 Mingles with the rustling of the quivering leaves. 

 On the gravelly shoal, in the stream, below 

 Sleek, well-fed cattle contented stand, 

 Beneath the spreading beech. 



Across the narrow stream, 

 Leans a giant sycamore, old and gray, 

 With scarr'd arms stretching o'er the silent pool ; 

 And gnarl'd and twisted roots bared by the wash 

 And ripple, for, lo these hundred years. 

 The bubbles of the rapid play hide and seek 

 Among their arching nooks. 



Beneath those bare roots, 



"With watchful eye, proud monarch of the pool, 

 A cunning Bass doth lie, on balanced fin, 

 In waiting for his prey. 



Now, with supple, 



Yielding rod, and taper'd line of silk; 

 With mist-like leader, and two small flies 

 Dark, bushy hackles both I make a cast. 

 With lengthen'd line I quickly cast again, 

 And just beneath the tree the twin-like lures 

 As light as snow-flakes fall, and gently linger, 

 Half-submerged, like things of life, obedient still 

 To slightest tension of line and rod. 



Look ! Saw you that gleam 

 Beneath the flood ? A flash a shadow 



