On the Golden River. 
There were plashes of cardinal and yellow 
among the greens of the apple trees. The vivid 
greens of the blades of corn were softened, and 
nestling among the thick vines, glimpsed occas¬ 
ionally along the corn rows, were golden spheres. 
An irregular outline of a carpet of ferns glowed 
in vivid color play; canary, yellow, yet radiating 
in the vibrant air. Smiling tiny crowns of bril¬ 
liant purple poised on slender sage-hued stems 
courtesied gracefully as the rollicking breeze 
urged. Here and there among the plumes of 
the sumach were fronds of flaming scarlet. 
Prexy and De noted all these things as they 
passed on their way to wade the little river of 
gold. Dreaming verily were they of a gladsome 
day or two, for neither of them had ever, in 
the flesh, splashed along the reaches of golden 
sand over which rolled the crystal flood that 
coined the name of the Yellow River. The 
Judge hald told them in his breezy way of a 
day among the small-mouths, the royal tigers of 
the waters, and fancy with delicious abandon had 
penciled in a day dream this new vantage ground 
of angling. 
At a cozy shade-embowered cottage in Hoosier- 
land they found a host in the village blacksmith 
and among the jewels of the household was a 
Pearl. The genuine, modest hospitality was 
charming. The light, compact tackle of anglers 
who wade was soon assembled, and with pace 
somewhat quicker than a stroll, they walked the 
intervening mile of steel-streaked way to the 
bridge. Arriving, hip boots were pulled up and 
belted. Prexy set up a light six-foot bait rod 
and rigged a spoon lure and strip while De set 
up a ten-foot six-ounce fly-rod, reeved through 
a D line, put on a four-pound-test six-foot gut 
leader and attached a tiny spoon and salmon fly, 
with a bit of pork, like half a match, for a tail. 
Brushing through the thick undergrowth beneath 
the larger trees, they put in at a sandy beach 
of a charming pool. A gray log extended half 
across the little river at the upper end of the 
pool behind which a bar of the golden sand had 
formed and along which De could wade almost 
halfway across. The further shore swept in a 
graceful curve where the river turned almost at 
right angles. A great gnarled stump had its 
roots half in the water, which deepened to eight 
or ten feet in places. This day at this pool was 
one of discovery only—discovery of pool, not 
bass. 
Puttering along as anglers who wade must do, 
Prexy casting a lure here and there about the 
sunken logs or partly submerged treetops, De 
whipping this likely spot or that, the cool water 
sometimes half hip deep, but with gravel or 
sand bottom; wandering in the clear water along 
tree-fringed shores, they came to a charming 
little island. On one side the water ran blue 
and deep, the limbs intertwined above from either 
shore. It was as bassy looking as could be, but 
the lures lured not. Just below the island the 
river made a sharp turn. A great tree overhung 
the water and around its exposed rootage a pool 
deepened. Why not here, if ever? Yet the try¬ 
out indicated “not at home.” 
A little further along past a bit of rippling 
water the stream deepened again. A bar ex¬ 
tended through the middle and a log lay a little 
way out, up and down stream, while another 
reached half way across. The surface of the 
water, oily and foam-flecked, swept against the 
log barrier with jolly fierceness until it boiled 
a bit. De’s fly lure had gone well out, and he 
was bringing it across the current, about two 
inches under, when a gentle tug, a rush, a swirl 
and the first bass of the day dream was on. 
There was a bit of matching skill with cunning 
when Prexy happened to look round and ex¬ 
claimed : “Why don’t you holler and let a fel¬ 
low in on the fun?” Alert, quick, strong for 
his inches, the little tiger fought his best fight, 
but after a few minutes a graceful bit of olive 
and silver lay along the water. The folding net 
was unbuttoned from between the angler’s shoul¬ 
ders, the line reeled in to rod length. The rod 
hand swept backward, turning so the thumb was 
underneath the rod, the net submerged and the 
nine inches of latent energy slipped into it. As 
he was not legal, according to the angler’s ten- 
inch law for small-mouths, he was carefully re¬ 
turned to his element to grow and fight again, 
yet he proved the fact that there were small- 
mouths in the golden river. 
A gentle rain had begun to fall, so after ex¬ 
ploring a bend or two the anglers brushed 
through a clump of pawpaw bushes (did you 
ever notice what a flood is held suspended by 
the leafage of the pawpaw shrubs on a rainy 
day, and how very much of it lets loose when 
you push through?), called the day done and 
hiked hostward. 
There was soon need to unbuckle belts as the 
wholesome repast was dispatched into lessening 
vacuums, then the solace pipes were lighted. 
Afterward Prexy rendered one of his charming 
song recitals—“The Little Tin Soldier” for the 
lad Ross, “Three Little Owls” for Nellie, “Bon¬ 
nie Lassie” for Miss Pearl; mine host was 
charmed with “O’Dooley’s Five O'Clock Tay” 
and for the hostess there was “The Four-Leafed 
Clover.” As he finished the soothing “Robin 
and Squirrel Lullaby” the sand man was throw¬ 
ing sand promiscuously. The swish of wind and 
patter of rain soon finished the work, and all 
eyes under the roof tree closed. 
Richards came tumbling in through the down¬ 
pour, midway between the day-close and the dawn 
from that fascinating horror, the city. He was 
as full of words as a lazy man’s farm is full of 
cockleburrs, but presently Prexy, with slow meas¬ 
ured strokes, started to “saw a board,” and under 
that soothing cadence all were wafted into sleep 
land. 
The freshness of the morning was still on 
when the trio put in the dainty river above the 
sand hole. It may be the others will some time 
forget the sand hole, but it is not likely that De 
will. He had put in above and was wading half¬ 
thigh deep, noting among other items the play 
of sunlight through the water and on the tiny 
rifts of moired golden sand. The sweep of the 
half arch of tree limbs was high overhead, mak¬ 
ing room enough for the swing of the ten-foot 
rod and the back cast. One shore line lay in 
the shadow. The shrubbery Was garlanded low. 
A log lay lengthwise, a little way out, while an¬ 
other stood upright. “A queer freak of log 
lodging,” thought De, “but a likely place, a snug 
lair for a tiger.” Just over the one and against 
the other this cast must go. The fly lure set¬ 
tled, all a-quiver. A tiny upheaval. “Ah! come 
out over that log, you rascal,” said De, as his 
rod swept the line taut across stream. “Now, 
you’re out over these golden sand ripples; go 
to it! Ah! ah! stand up on your tail and make 
a courtesy, then the bout begins. That log across 
stream, eh? Think you can make it? A bully 
try-out! Going back to the first one, eh, and 
jump a time or two on the way! That’s it— 
play circus, now again. No trying to rub that 
barb out on the bottom. No, sir; not you; a 
square fighter. Shake it out or break it off; 
break the rod tip—eh? Break something, but 
get away. You will, eh?” Six minutes of gal¬ 
vanic action—all busy, angler, rod, line, leader 
and small-mouth—ere the aquatic tiger with the 
red iris came to net. 
On the far shore a young poplar spread broad 
leafage on its lower limbs. De lay the fourteen- 
inch trophy on fresh grasses, lifted the gill cover, 
and his knife-point sought the dark purple spot. 
The life current ebbed and was still. Wrapped 
in his poplar leaf robe of cool greenery, he was 
put to creel. Gallant to the last, he was entitled 
to die like a warrior. The fly was a squirrel-tail 
tied on No. 4 hook. 
In the shadow-strewn reaches below the san.d 
hole, Prexy had his innings, and Richards took 
a pair from the pool beneath the wild cherry. 
It was surely a luncheon al fresco. The day 
and the anglers idled on. Prexy saw a scant 
clump of rushes along the way and De noted 
two spots where the leafage of the pond lilies 
floated. There was the whirr of a covey of 
bobwhites seeking cover in the corn. Richards 
heard the call of the red-shouldered hawk. On¬ 
ward, with the little river sun-kissed here and 
there in the open, then along the emerald hued 
arches held aloft by purplish column and rafter, 
beside the verdure clad shores, strewn with 
shadows and sunlight, they wandered. Once they 
noted, as strolling beneath the cottonwoods, they 
skirted the little river, some clusters of wood 
violets demurely smiling up into their faces from 
among their cover of emerald. They left them 
smiling. How much a fisherman misses who 
merely goes fishing for fish! 
At one spot the little river rippled over a 
grass-grown rift of gravel, swept into a pretty 
pool too deep to wade, bent to the right, a wil¬ 
low-fringed shore on one side and a pebble- 
strewn one on the other, and again murmured 
its lullaby over the shallow places. De had 
waded in from the pebbly shore at the lower 
end. All the landscape was in shadow. Under 
the great trees at the upper end the outlines of 
things had grown dim and the quiet of evening 
