l6'2 



RECREATION. 



How clear the river is ! The boatman 

 splashes a rhythm through the eel 

 grass. We are coming to the rocks 

 around which the black water rushes, 

 foams, and curls into deep eddies, melt- 

 ing and remelting into its own boiling 

 embraces. 



"Throw it out." The boatman bends 

 to his oars and the flat bottom craft 

 shoots into "the rapturous flood. 



The reel whirs as the fingers of the 

 tide snatch the bait and carry it afar. 

 What's that? It has come and gone, 

 sending a tremor along the silk. 



"It's the eddy. When they strike 

 you'll know it. Give 'em a hundred 

 yards. The water is deep here. I'm 

 off to the big rock in mid stream. 

 We'll have a strike in a minute." The 

 boatman is both wise and confident. 

 Swiftly the water glides away from 

 our port as the line vibrates under the 

 influence of the spoon. It runs like an 

 electric fan. Even the feel of the line 

 is soothing. There is comfort in the 

 very thought of what is to come. Two 

 hundred yards up the river, lord of a 

 separate pool, my friend, whose reel 

 I nursed, was feeling the same emo- 

 tions. In the midst of my reveries I 

 got a message from the deep. The 

 boatman saw the sign that came to the 

 tip of my rod. 



"Give it to him." I struck him in 

 the thick of the mouth, and felt the cer- 

 tain tug that means so much to he who 

 holds the rod. Zing. The reel purred 

 a long note and I gave him line. The 

 battle was on in earnest and the game 

 tugged like a bull pup. Once he 

 turned to back rush, but I took in all 

 the line he gave me and fought back. 

 The lesson angered him and with a 

 plunge he fled across tide into shoal 

 and quieter water. Once, twice, three 

 times I brought him to gunwale and 

 then passed him into the net. Three 

 and a half pounds. Game enough, but 

 not large enough. I took my cue 

 from the boatman, who sneered in dis- 

 gust. 



"Small fish," I commented. 



"Throw him back," remarked the 



native. Surely there was something 

 worth while to come, if this fish was 

 frowned upon. Again we returned to 

 the pool, crossing and recrossing in all 

 twelve times. On each trip we found 

 our quarry, taking some and losing 

 some. These latter rushed for the 

 rocks and three of them took souvenirs 

 in the shape of spoons and leaders. 

 There is some wild water in the Sus- 

 quehanna, and some nasty rocks jut 

 from its turbulent bosom. The sixth 

 fish pulled my scales out to the six- 

 pound notch, while the others fell un- 

 der four. My boatman was getting 

 irritated. 



"Rotten fishing to-day. We get 'em 

 here between fifteen and twenty. Old 

 Flynn, of New York, took one last 

 week that went nearly twenty-four and 

 there's more here like him. Haul in; 

 we'll shoot the cataract and try the 

 lower pool." I would have gone any- 

 where with that guide. He seemed to 

 want fish as bad as did his passenger. 

 I reeled in the squirming bait and 

 trimmed ship. The next instant, with 

 three or four powerful strokes we 

 swung into mid stream and went leap- 

 ing down the channel between jagged 

 rocks, bobbing on the crest of froth 

 mottled riffles and gliding between oily 

 currents that came swelling up under 

 our very keel. The bank of the river 

 hurried past us like a panorama. Be- 

 hind us, up stream, I caught a glimpse 

 of the billiard player standing up and 

 fighting a battle that from its very ac- 

 tivities must have been worth repeat- 

 ing in after years. 



"Throw it out again." The boat- 

 man rested on his oars an instant and 

 wiped his perspiring brow. "If we 

 don't take a whale out of here it's be- 

 cause we're in the wrong river. It's 

 deep in this hole and there's a 

 sandy bottom. Use plenty of line." 



Mechanically, I was obeying his in- 

 structions. I must have nearly emp- 

 tied the reel, when he swung the boat 

 around and began pulling slowly up 

 stream. 



"Jig her a bit," said he, making an 



