140 WASTE-LAND WANDERINGS. 



There is a point in our row-boat navigation which be- 

 comes at times monotonous — waiting for. the tide to 

 turn. To-day I waited until the deepest visible twig 

 on the creek bottom was laid bare, thinking then surely 

 the upward flow would commence ; but no, the waters 

 must recede yet a little more, and I marked another ob- 

 ject just below the surface. This, in time, rippled the 

 outward flow, and I looked for a telltale eddy which 

 never appeared. A change took place at last, yet I could 

 not determine at what precise fraction of a second. It 

 happened between winks — without a sign. As I gazed 

 intently at a water-soaked leaf, which just reached the 

 surface, the water was flowing out, and before I could 

 realize the change the tide had turned. 



Although it is well known that the Indians were con- 

 stantly fishing, and were expert fishermen, it is quite 

 certain that there were far more large or fully grown 

 specimens of our various fishes met with in their time 

 than are now found in the creek or even in the river. 

 It may, indeed, be doubted if we know what is the 

 maximum size of some of our fishes. For a fish to 

 escape nets, hook, and weirs for a dozen or twenty years 

 must now be a very, very rare occurrence. 



Among the ashes of the Indians' camp-fires it is well 

 to look; when opportunity offers ; for therein bones are 

 frequently found which tell the story, without exaggera- 

 tion, of what fishes these primitive folk were accustomed 

 to capture. 



Within a few rods of the Bend^ on a knoll, there were, 

 until recently, the unmistakable evidences of such camp- 



