Fishing in North Carolina. 53 



the water, where it was mixed with rocks, for 

 another bass. One bit my minnow the instant 

 it touched the water, and for a time struggled 

 bravely, but I was master. Carrying it to the 

 bank, I looked around for the other fish — a bass 

 as I supposed— but could not find it. A fish 

 was there, to be sure, but it had completely 

 changed color from the sheeny green of life to 

 the bars of a sheepshead in death. Haywood 

 then told me it was a red eye, the gamest fish 

 in the river. I had never heard of such a thing 

 as a red eye except when it was sorely inflamed. 



And yet this was my whilom bass. I baited 

 and started out again. Looking back I saw 

 Haywood with shoes and breeches off, rod and 

 ammunition in hand, following hot and hasty. 

 He had become excited. I got another fish at 

 the same place, and that took in the school. 

 There was no more play. Two of them weighed 

 a little over two pounds a piece and the other 

 was smaller. I was proud of my catch. 



Then I went to work to study the liars (au- 

 thorities) on fish lore to learn something useful 

 about the red eye of the fish tribe. I am yet a 



