350 Book of the Black Bass. 



glare of the northern sun, and flowed on in silence toward 

 the sea. The fir-elad hills rose boldly on either side, and 

 stood in silent, solemn grandeur — for neither note of bird 

 nor hum of bee disturbed the painful silence of the Cana- 

 dian woods. 



At such times would flash on memory's mirror many a 

 fair scene of limpid lake or rushing river, shadowed by 

 cool, umbrageous trees, and vocal with myriads of voices — 

 where the black bass rose responsive to the swish of the_ 

 rod and dropping of the fly. Or, should the bass be coy 

 and shy, or loth to leave his lair beneath some root or shelv- 

 ing rock — the melody of the birds, the tinkle of a cow-bell, 

 the chirp of a cricket, the scudding of a squirrel, filled up 

 the void and made full compensation. 



The true angler can find real pleasure in catching little 

 sunfish, or silversides, if the stream and birds, and bees 

 and butterflies do their part by him; while the killing of 

 large or many fish, even salmon or trout, in silence and 

 solitude, may fail to fully satisfy him. 



I can find something beautiful or interesting in every fish 

 that swims. I have an abiding affection for every one, from 

 the lowly, naked bull-head, the humble scavenger of the 

 waters, to the silver-spangled king who will not deign to 

 soil his dainty lips with food during his sojourn in crystal 

 streams, and I love the brook trout best of all. But, as an 

 angler, I can find more true enjoyment, more blessed peace, 

 in wading some rushing, rocky stream, flecked by the shad- 

 ows of overhanging elm and sycamore, while tossing the 

 silken gage to the knight in Lincoln-green, my ears con- 

 scious of the rippling laughter of the merry stream, the 

 joyous matin of the woodland thrush, the purring under- 

 tone of the quivering leaves ■ — my eyes catching glimpses 

 of hill and meadow, wren and robin, bee and bittern, fern 



