CHAPTEE XI. 



The Catfish and Suckers. 



We North Carolinians have no catfish big 

 and strong enough to pull a Mississippi Eiver 

 stern wheel steamboat off a mud bank, but the 

 familiar old catfish of our boyhood days is abun- 

 dant in all our waters. Whether, like an eel, 

 he glides over land in the dew of night, when he 

 usually stirs about, from pond to pond, it is not 

 certain; guard against his intrusion as much 

 as we will he gets there all the same — possibly 

 through the assistance of the clouds. 



The first fish I ever caught was a catfish, 

 which courteously hitched one side of his mus- 

 tache to my hook and could not unhitch it by 

 himself. I was a proud boy that day. 



The catfish has no scales, but instead, it has 

 a plentiful outfit of horns, or thorns, at odd 

 places. Its head is the largest part, except when 

 the fish is full, and the innocent face reminds 

 one of a full moon with a well-defined mouth 

 running clear across the center of it; yet it 

 never siiffers itself to be eclipsed. 



