50 FISHING GOSSIP. 
lines, composed of fine strong thread, each mounted 
with three hooks of small size; these were respectively 
baited with a strip of pork rind. The biscuit-dust 
was thrown over, and allowed to float (a small portion 
at a time) away with the stream. In less than ten 
minutes the surface for a space of fifty yards was 
covered with mackerel, all head to stream, darting 
here and there at every fragment as it floated by, and 
like Oliver “asking for more.” No Mosaic law in- 
fluenced these fish of sunny seas. Two and three at 
a time in they came, fluttering with stiff fins and 
ultramarine tints, as mackerel alone can, until from 
sheer weariness I cried “Hold, enough,” and indeed 
we could not well have held many more. I lighted 
my old black pipe, the cherished (and still spared) 
comrade of many a ramble and scramble by flood and 
through forest, and with the gurgling water rushing 
under the canoe, and the lip-lap of the current making 
dreamy music as it fleeted by our smooth sides, 
yielded myself to the guidance of my sable oarsman, 
until the hoarse challenge, “ What boat is that?” and 
the dark loom of my ocean home, called me abruptly 
back from dreamland to waking realities. 
W. B. L. 
