BASS FISHING IN THE NORTH POTOMAC. 



330 



Crushed victim on the rocks. He was gone 

 some time. I saw him, on his return, put 

 something black on his hook and make a 

 cast. No sooner had it skimmed the water 

 than, with a noise like the crack of a whip, 

 a big bass gulped it down and after a pretty- 

 fight was drawn in. There were no words 

 spoken as the captain wiped his face; but 

 he turned and looked at me. He was 

 laughing, but there was no answering grin 

 on my face. 



Again he threw, and it seemed that the 

 one longed-for delicacy on the bass bill of 

 fare had been provided ; and my comrade 

 had his revenge on me, too, if that was 

 what he wanted. He turned a deaf ear to 

 my request to be enlightened as to the 

 wonderful bait he was using, and he drew 

 out 6 successive bass, not one less than n 

 inches in length. 



At last he relented, and conducted me to 

 an old field, half a mile distant, where a 

 pine tree lay prostrate and half decayed. In 

 this retreat he had found the field crickets, 

 a species of grasshopper, rusty black in hue, 

 with short legs and wings and fat body. 



We secured about 20 of them, and, shades 

 of Walton ! what sport we had ! Such dart- 

 ings hither and yon ; such ripples on the 

 surface and such commotion below ! We 

 shouted aloud in our exultation. The 

 noise must have attracted other fish, for 

 the numbers seemed undiminished in spite 

 of our gains. At last we knocked off, tired 

 out. As we lay resting, I remarked, 



"It is clear that nature did not intend me 

 for an angler. Every one of those bass 

 would have been in the water now but for 

 you." 



My friend's face softened in a gratified 

 smile. 



"You are right. An angler is born, not 

 made. Those bass were hankering for 

 some certain food, not far distant. I would 

 have spent the whole day trying to find out 

 what it was." 



"Suppose yon had not hit on the right 

 thing? What then?" I urged. 



"I would have gone home, given away 

 my rod, and would never have gone near 

 a stream again. A man," concluded the 

 captain, "who can not find out the ways of 

 trout or bass, is not fit to cast a fly." 



THE HUMMING BIRD. 

 Winner of 9th Prize in Recreation's 7th Annual Photo Competition. 



AMATEUR PHOTO BY M. JAM SON 



