THE BOOK OF THE TARPON 



to the woods and we missed the finish of the 

 fight, but we felt fairly assured that the plucky 

 little bee bird got the marauder's scalp. 



With the passing of the egret, the bird hunters, 

 white and Indian, had lost interest in the river, 

 while the ordinary tourist had never seen its 

 upper waters. A few years' rest from pursuit 

 had half tamed the wild creatures about us. The 

 birds were almost friendly, the alligators less 

 shy, and even a wise old otter, forgetful of the 

 cash value of his fur, gazed at us from the bank 

 unapprehensively. 



This dolce far niente life could not last and 

 when, on our third morning at the head of the 

 river, the captain asked if we were through tar- 

 pon fishing, I told him to get out the little motor 

 boat while I put my eight ounce fly-rod together. 

 There were tarpon in the streams that flowed 

 near us in the Everglades, but the water was so 

 clear that the fish saw the game and refused to 

 rise to our lure. We tried the shallow little 

 streams and the deeper pools about us, but 

 though the creatures we sought were plentiful 

 we couldn't scare up a bite. 



"Why not go down to the crooked creek?" 

 178 



