stood the brunt of the rebellion. I answered innumer- 

 able questions, whistled broken melodies and hummed 

 familiar tunes, and my boy did exactly as I did, 

 except that he asked questions, didn't answer them. 

 The birds were chiming and flitting from cedar to 

 cedar, and the roar of the Shenandoah River as it 

 rushed over a bed broken with immense boulders added 

 to the music of the bright crisp morning. At the foot 

 of the trail, beyond the town limits, we came to the 

 water's edge and underneath an overhanging brush 

 pile we found a bucket of bait. The bucket had been 

 placed there the night before in sucli position as 

 permitted the water to percolate through the holes 

 which had been punctured in it. My son opened the 

 tin bucket with which he had awakened the family 

 that morning and into it I transferred the wiggling 

 chubs. This done we proceeded to the dam, a half 

 mile away. There we climbed down the stone wall, 

 crossed over through the willows, stubbing a toe on 

 projecting rocks here and there which tested my son's 

 endurance and capability to suppress bad words. 

 Crossing over the river on the dam, we were joined 

 by an old fisherman, Uncle Scott Lightner, who ac- 

 companied us along the path which skirted the 

 mountain until we reached Bull's Falls. Here our 

 companion waded out onto a high rock which lifted 

 its head above the swift raging water and proceeded 

 leisurely to fish for the small-mouthed bass, while 

 my son and I trudged on across an island covered 

 with tall oaks and entangling undergrowth, until we 

 reached a narrow branch of the river known by the 

 mountaineers as "Sylvester's Run." It ran over 

 shelving flat rocks, the water now deep and the next 

 step shallow. We waded up stream. I led the way 



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