TALES OF FISHES 



gaff, rich in experience. What sport I would have; 

 what treasure of keen sensation would I store; what 

 flavor of life would I taste this day! Hope burns 

 always in the heart of a fisherman. 



Attalano was in harmony with the day and the 

 scene. He had a cheering figure, lithe and erect, 

 with a springy stride, bespeaking the Montezuma 

 blood said to flow in his Indian veins. Clad in a 

 colored cotton shirt, blue jeans, and Spanish girdle, 

 and treading the path with brown feet never de- 

 formed by shoes, he would have stopped an artist. 

 Soon he bent his muscular shoulders to the oars, 

 and the ripples circling from each stroke hardly 

 disturbed the calm Panuco. Down the stream 

 glided long Indian canoes, hewn from trees and laden 

 with oranges and bananas. In the stem stood a 

 dark native wielding an enormous paddle with ease. 

 Wild-fowl dotted the glassy expanse; white cranes 

 and pink flamingoes graced the reedy bars; red- 

 breasted kingfishers flew over with friendly screech. 

 The salt breeze kissed my cheek; the sun shone with 

 the comfortable warmth Northerners welcome in 

 spring; from over the white sand-dunes far below 

 came the faint boom of the ever-restless Gulf. 



We trolled up the river and down, across from 

 one rush-lined lily-padded shore to the other, for 

 miles and miles with never a strike. But I was con- 

 tent, for over me had been cast the dreamy, care- 

 dispelling languor of the South. 



When the first long, low swell of the changing tide 

 rolled in, a stronger breeze raised little dimpling 

 waves and chased along the water in dark, quick- 

 moving frowns. All at once the tarpon began to 



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