V4 _ Fisuine mw American Waters. 
for sulking this morning ; sometimes they settle behind rocks, 
and butt the hook against them to spring it out. 
Mosier, Don’t you hold him a leetle too taut ? 
D. T don’t know; but I can not play him easier, for when 
I give him an inch, he takes a rod! 
S. He will soon stop for his final fight. See! he is prepar- 
ing. Now ease the line a trifle, and trust to the chance of 
his being well hooked. 
D. He’s gone, I know he is! Just see the fellow throw 
himself like Pat McAroon in a street-fight. There, he’s off! 
No, he is not; what’s to be done? 
S. Reel up gently; he is dead; that is, he has fought until 
he has fainted. Gingerly, doctor; reel with the incoming 
surf, and slacken with the ebb—there! 
Mosier, He is a game one, and will weigh over twenty 
pounds. They’re allays hifalorum in them Rifle Pits! Gen- 
tlemen, the breakfast horns has been blowin a good while. 
D. Tam wilted. These rocks are rough to run about on 
and play a fish, when every now and then Neptune drenches 
one with spray. I had long heard that striped bass were 
game, but all that I ever heard or read did not prepare me 
for such encounters as J have seen and realized this morning. 
Tam not now surprised that Americans consider this the head 
of game fishes. The accessories of fishing for it, the scenes 
where it is taken, together with the modus operandi of its 
capture by artistic means, render the sport the most exciting 
that I know of under the head of angling. I shall certainly 
prescribe something to steady my nerves. Lh bien! To 
breakfast is the order; and as we have taken two grand bass, 
ne quid nimis, we will even leave off fishing while they are 
feeding, which, for the vulgar object of ourselves feeding, is, 
with a real angler, an unpardonable offense against the wxs- 
thetics of sport. But, though belonging to the refined con- 
fraternity of anglers, our excuse is that we are rigged with 
human necessities. 
As the breakfast-table is the morning’s trysting-place for 
