THE CATFISH. 
THE CATFISH OR BULL-HEAD. 
Don’t talk to me o’ bacon fat 
Or taters, coon or ’possum, 
Fo’ when I’se hooked a yaller cat 
Fse got a meal to boss ’em. 
The Darky and the Catfish. 
HE Catfish is somewhat like pate de foie gras or pickled olives. 
Those who do not very much like it detest it. The metropolis of its 
popularity is Philadelphia, but whenever taken from clear, cool water it is 
palatable, and when properly cooked even delicious, its texture and flavor 
resembling that of the eel. Since every small boy begins his angling ex¬ 
periences with Catfish, instructions for its capture would be superfluous. Its 
appetite is always good, and its palate, or whatever stands for palate in 
fish architecture, by no means delicate. A spice of danger attends its 
capture, and perhaps the excitement of taking one of them off the hook, 
atones in part for its lack of gameness in the water, for a well constituted 
catfish always gorges the hook, and its spines, always erected, inflict pain¬ 
ful wounds. Certain anglers I believe, essay the capture of catfish with 
fly and fancy tackle. It would be cruel to deprive ingenious tyros of 
the privilege of learning this method for themselves. 
I am assured that salt mackerel is almost as good a bait as angle-worms 
or live minnows—a secret of great economic importance to small boys. 
Another secret is this, that the catfish never bites when an east wind is 
blowing. 
