The Lair of Something Striped. 77 



current it settles. He spreads a broad 

 tail and turns quizzingly sidewise to take 

 a look, then back he bends, and turning a 

 finely outlined nose into the tide rests 

 again, and lets the baited hook slide by. 



The sun sinking below the horizon 

 takes one last look into the sea by a trick 

 of angular refraction, and finding the bass 

 all safe calmly moves away to make day 

 elsewhere for awhile. 



The chink of a migrating finch over- 

 head, the squeak of a bat, are evening 

 sounds, and their harmony is not marred 

 by the splash of a hooked bass. 



The moon rises. It makes a straight 

 and lighted road through the midst of 

 dark heaving waters. The fishes are 

 moving on beneath the waves, the birds 

 are flying southward overhead. I '11 hoist 

 my sail and follow the moon road between 

 the fishes and birds and think of ways to 

 catch the striped bass. 



