" BYME-BY-TARPON " 



his head and shoulders out on the lily-pads. One 

 moment he lay there, glowing like mother-of-pearl, 

 a rare fish, fresh from the sea. Then, as Attalano 

 warily reached for the leader, he gave a gasp, a 

 flop that deluged us with nauddy water, and a lunge 

 that spelled freedom. 



I watched him swim slowly away with my bright 

 leader dragging beside him. Is it not the loss of 

 things which makes life bitter? What we have 

 gained is ours; what is lost is gone, whether fish, or 

 use, or love, or name, or fame. 



I tried to put on a cheerful aspect for my guide. 

 But it was too soon. Attalano, wise old fellow, 

 understood my case. A smile, warm and living, 

 flashed across his dark face as he spoke: 



" Byme-by-tarpon." 



Which defined his optimism and revived the fail- 

 ing spark within my breast. It was, too, in the 

 nature of a prophecy. 



