Fishing With the Tangle. 
We were sitting by a camp-fire built in a 
chimney-shaped crevasse between the high rocks 
that lined the shore of a bay along the Maine 
coast. Rods and lines were drying in sunlight 
and fire warmth after the morning’s fishing. 
The boats and canoes were pulled up above the 
reach of the surf. Over the bay, the rays of the 
late afternoon sun slanted, lighting the white 
sails in the offing. There were schooners with 
all their head sails set, some so far off that 
the sails seemed like four gray wings against 
the sky. The water was so purple that one could 
look through the rifts in the rocks and easily 
mistake it at first glance for a part of the dis¬ 
tant mountains. So real was the illusion that 
it brought a feeling of surprise when a schooner 
yacht, with long bellying balloon jib, came racing 
along with the sun on her spars and all her can¬ 
vas as white as the foam from her prow. 
Our catch lay where we had left it, near the 
spring that fell from the rocks into the bay. 
Rich store'of cod and haddock was there, and 
so easily caught that we longed for novelty in 
fishing, and so we sat, planning a new treat, 
while the afternoon wore on and the shadows 
of the rocks began to lengthen. 
Unable to decide on a plan of fishing, I took 
the canoe in order to enjoy a quiet sail. It was 
just about sunset, wind and tide so lulled that 
the waters were practically still. Only a dif¬ 
fused heaving lifted the water over the rocks 
almost without ripple and without foam. All 
the blaze of sunset was mirrored in the waters. 
For half an hour I lay there while the sky 
changed colors and the low clouds lit with crim-, 
son and golden flame. It seemed as if the canoe 
floated between two worlds of wonder—a sun¬ 
set burning above and a sunrise kindling below 
—with all the day’s blue of sky and sea con¬ 
centrated into one moment’s limpid color as I 
hung poised on a wave. 
When I lifted my eyes from the waters I saw 
I had drifted far from the camp-fire. The moon 
was already out and the tide flowing once more 
with lap and gurgle against my canoe. From 
sunset to phosphorescence is but a moment, and 
in the moonlight I could see the tide turned 
to silver fire as it furrowed from my prow. A 
jellyfish with its four-celled being beating in 
unison had caught in its heart a tangle of tiny 
animalculae and there they hung in the irides¬ 
cent, transparent body like stars tangled in a 
web of pearl films. From time to time a gray 
ghost-like form defined itself against the dark 
bottom, and hung with waving fins like a spectre 
fish, made visible by the faint glow of the phos¬ 
phorescent water against its sides. These were 
great skates with broad-winged heads and nar¬ 
row tails. 
v 
Do but thrust the tip of your rod deep down 
in the water and at every guide, at every spot 
where silk winding or metal fitting makes a pro¬ 
tuberance, you shall catch a tiny glow worm 
of phosphorescence and see fringes of light 
: stream vaguely from the lee of the tip. Get 
the moon directly behind and above your head. 
Look down in the deeps and see your own 
silhouette with the same aureolar radiance car¬ 
ried down in the waves. Your rod, pointing 
downward, shows waving forests of sea weed 
likewise lit; grottoes faintly outlined in the 
depths, and ever and anon a gleaming form, as 
of some startled mermaid, flashes across the 
open and reveals itself against the moonlit bot¬ 
tom. What a world lies submerged here, in¬ 
finitely more beautiful than Atlantis, turreted 
city under the waves. With what eagerness one 
would walk those narrow streets and peer under 
the shadow of each frond and rock. 
It was this that roused me and sent me camp- 
ward with strong strokes. We would see what 
w'as below the waters; not the fish, for those 
could be caught, but the denizens, the perma¬ 
nent dwellers, those rarely lifted by net or line. 
But how ? As I told my plan to the others we 
thought of the cruise of the Challenger with 
the deep sea trawls and tangles. At last we hit 
on a plan. One of our men was sent up to 
the country store two miles away for some' 
string mops, and the rest of us prepared the 
tackle, a long rope with heavy sinkers at the 
end. Thus weighted, our huge mop should drag 
with its waving tangle on the bottom of the bay 
and we would see what spiny creature would be 
tangled in its cords. 
With lanterns lit we launched the big boat, 
and while two pulled on the sweeps the other 
two cast the tangle. It was slow work and 
hard for the men, but for me pure joy. With 
eagerness I waited till the tangle had been 
dragged a few yards and with willing hands 
I heaved it from the bottom. Up it came with 
store of treasures, sea mosses so fine that when 
floated and pressed on a cardboard their fronds 
were more delicate in their shading than the 
finest lines of a penman. Huge streamers of 
kelp came up, and on them slugs, tiny single- 
whorled sea snails, larvae of crab and lobster, 
with the translucent, jointed frond-like body of 
the free barnacle. 
There were shells without number. But out 
of all the denizens the tangle brought up to 
the lamplight, four kinds stamped themselves 
on my memory. They were the Asteroidce 
really, though not all so classed—the five-rayed 
stars of the waters. Place these side by side 
and a history longer than humanity’s written 
annals is revealed in epitome, a story more won¬ 
drous than one would dream. 
First the brittle star, tiny, so fragile that a 
careless touch crumbles it to dust, it lies be¬ 
neath the thunder of waves which would shatter 
an ironclad on the rocks above. Its arms are 
barred with beauteous pattern, olive green and 
terracotta—a Persian pattern like the back of 
a diamond rattler—with each shade and change 
of form embodying a family history sacred with 
memories of old. These brittle gnomes we 
placed in a bucket of water and we watched 
them crawl with hesitating arms about its bot¬ 
tom and sides. 
Next came the star fishes, red and golden. 
Here were evidently brothers of the brittle stars, 
only they were bigger, harder, more able to 
bear the stress of life. The tiny, fragile lumps 
on the brittle star’s arms were here developed 
into horny knobs, and these under the micro¬ 
scope reveal tiny claws and scissors fixed on 
rudimentary ball and socket joints, for what 
purpose no man knows, unless it be to cut and 
weave the filmy tracery of sea moss’ into bridal 
wreaths and veils. But there is a compensa¬ 
tion in nature; the star had gained these scissors 
aiid its coat of mail, but it had lost the mobility 
of the brittle star, almost inert it lay in the net. 
With these came the sea urchin, a ball of purple 
and green spines. And every spine is but the 
scissor or horny knob of the star and brittle 
star developed to a spear. Below the spines are 
the same ball and socket joints; between the 
spines the waving plume-like purple tentacles, 
and on the horny shell itself the urchin’s his¬ 
tory is written. Plate for plate it is the same 
as the starfish. Shorn of its spears it reveals 
the sign of the five-rayed star, the totem of this 
clan of rock denizens. Bent around in a hemis¬ 
phere are the arms, pinioned fast as though in 
some dread war he had clinched his scattered 
members to one compact defense, developed 
peaceful scissors to three-jawed swords, and 
battered the crennelated plates of the star for 
this Greecian phalanx of spears that should 
fend His home. 
Still others came to our tangle, a rich and 
red-brown denizen, its plush coat glistening with 
pearls and phosphorescence in the torch light. 
Sand dollar he is called, but under his plush and 
pearls his origin is hidden. There, tattoed on 
his back, is the totem of his clan—the five-rayed 
star of the waters. Devoid of scissor, sword 
and spear, grown to foppishness without work 
or war, he has crouched flat in servile fear of 
the thunder of the surf above him, and now 
most lifeless of all, he lies dreaming of the past. 
These four came to our tangle—the star, the 
brittle star, urchin and dollar. Which is the pro¬ 
totype? It seemed to me that the brittle star 
was first on the scene, for he was mobile and 
simple like a growing child. Next came the star, 
like a man in his forties, progressing now with 
slowness and carrying his evolutions with loss 
of speed. Next the urchin, like a crabbed and 
spiky old man, fending himself from the past. 
And last of all, a degenerate, the earthy dollar, 
fit emblem of dotage, flattened, clothed in plush 
and pearls, but dead to all the rovings of the 
past, dead to all its toil and war, living only in 
reminiscence the good old times when he had 
but the open sea and his armor. 
So, thinking silently of these dumb brothers 
of bygone ages, seeing again as in the magic 
mirror those days of yore when these warriors 
of the reefs were in their pristine glory, and 
wondering what trick of wave cast one for¬ 
ward and the other back in the evolving, we 
wended our way back to the camp-fire and 
crawled under the blankets, grateful for the 
warmth and fragrance of the embers of the 
forest spruce. Thomas Travis. 
