106 AMERICAN FISHES. 
mile away as the small-fry dashed and jumped in their frantic endeavors to 
escape from the ravenous jaws of their pursuers; in fact, everything was 
so still that I remember to have heard the sound of a cow-bell, two miles 
away, as its low, mellow tones were borne over the broad expanse of water. 
I had occasionally taken a whiff or two at my pipe and watched the fleecy 
clouds of smoke float slowly upward and dissolve into space, before some- 
thing sent an electric message to my finger from the other end of the line. 
It was a faint message, scarcely felt, but distinct enough to tell me what 
was there. A moment’s pause and then it was repeated ; this time it was 
emphatic, for the fish picked up the bait in its mouth as daintily asa 
neatly-gloved lady would pick up an orange, and then let it fall again. 
Aha! my boy. You are an old hand at the business, and know by past 
experience that sometimes even the most tempting morsels are dangerous. 
A moment more it is picked up again, and yet again, and it is carried a 
couple of yards or so before it is dropped; and then back again; then 
further off. Our fish is playing with the bait as a coquette with hearts. 
The very moment a novice would wink that he was going to take it, ’tis 
dropped and he is gone again. No, not gone, only swimming around i in 
circles, keeping one eye on the prize and keeping away all such intruders 
as sharks and cat-fish. 
‘‘ Now for it. The bait is picked up, seized with a vim, as though he 
meant business, and away he starts with it. Here the inexperienced 
would jerk the line and perhaps lose the fish, or at least have the whole 
formula to go over again. But wait; the successful sportsman must 
practice patience. Again the bait is dropped, but not for long. Ina 
moment it is seized, and this time there is not feint about it. He darts 
off, the line is drawn tight, then a sudden jerk and a wild plunge tell that 
the game is safely hooked. And now commences the struggle for life. 
Away he goes up the stream for fifty yards or more, straining every nerve 
to get free; then down, then back again, while the line is pulled just hard 
enough to draw him in a little nearer the shore; then up and down, each 
time a still shorter distance. At each effort I feel his powers give way, 
and then as he makes a turn we pull his head toward the shore and keep 
it there. Now is the critical period ; now, if at all, the line will part or 
the hook break. I haul the line in rapidly, hand over hand, keeping it 
taut, for the least slack or a failure to grasp the line firmly would perhaps 
lose the game. Swerving to and fro, I draw him rapidly in, and with 
such force does he come that far up the shelving rocks we land our prize, 
a thirty pound Bass, a magnificent fellow, his scales eistening like bur- 
nished silver in the moonlight. ae. 
At Mayport, Fla., in summer, ‘‘ heaving and hauling in the surf’’ is 
practiced for the capture of this fish, just as it is for bluefish and striped 
bass in New England. Chumming in the Cuttyhunk and Newport style 
would doubtless be very effective. / 
