382 Book of the Black Bass. 



there was no time for moralizing — I jnst heard the splash 

 of another hass ! I soon had rod and reel, line and leader 

 together, and a " polka " and a " professor " were soon 

 dancing over the water together ! 



I had stepped from boulder to boulder, in the shadow of 

 the cliff, until I had reached a vantage point at the foot 

 and edge of the riffle, with the sun in my face and broken 

 water all around me. I knew of half a dozen deep holes 

 and sheltered eddies within, the length of mj- cast, from 

 which I would be completely hidden by two jagged rocks 

 that rose in front of me, half as high as my head. 



Then like a guilty thing I began casting in ever-widen- 

 ing circles — aU the time pretending to watch the play of 

 the sunshine on the water, or the blackbird that was drink- 

 ing at the verge of the stream. 



Then I saw a swirl behind the gray boulder — but pre- 

 tended to be listening to a squirrel barking at me from 

 the projecting limb of a hickory, whose glossy, green leaves 

 were just touched with the faintest suspicion of old gold. 



Then I made another cast as straight as the maple boll 

 behind me. The flies dropped just over and beyond the 

 smooth, gray boulder, and as they were drawn into its eddy 

 the " polka " disappeared, and something seemed to lift the 

 water just there for an instant, and then — what a lively 

 staccato to that kingfisher's rattle! 



But, bless my soul ! it is my reel that is giving so merry 

 a hum ! I must stop that. Then, as I follow the erratic 

 flight of a dragon-fly across the stream, I can't help ob- 

 serving my strained line cutting like mad through the 

 water, and as I look up at a crow flying overhead I see that 

 my rod is bent, and strained and twisted, and altogether 

 there seems to be something unusual going on in the water, 

 and as I look — out into the sunshine with bristling fins 

 and red, extended jaws there leaps a bass! 



