I can but throw myself upon the mercy of every respectable disciple of the art before whom this confession may come when I say that during this conversation I was employed in taking off my flies and in substituting therefor a strong bass-hook and a cork, after the effective fashion of Mr. McGrath.  When this never-to-be-sufficiently-despised device was ready I took from the bucket a small and unhappy sunfish, immolated him upon my hook by passing it through his upper and lower lips, and cast him out upon the stream.  The red top of the cork spun merrily down the current and out among the oily ripples of the deep water below, but Mr. McGrath could beat me completely in handling his.  I noticed that I threw my fish so that it struck hard upon the water, “knocking the sowl out of it,” as he said, while he threw his hither and thither with the greatest ease, always taking care to do it with the least possible amount of violence, and keeping it alive as long as possible.  However, it was not long before my cork disappeared with a peculiar style of departure abundantly indicative of the cause, to which I replied by a vigorous “strike.”  My cork came up promptly, and with it my hook, bare.  The sunfish had found a grave within the natural enemy of his species, and I had missed my fish.

“Divvle a wondher!” said Mr. McGrath in reply to a remark to that effect—­“being, sorr, that ye’re not familiar wid their ways.  Ye see, sorr, he comes up an’ he nips that fish be the tail, an’ away wid him to a convanient spot for to turn him an’ swallow him head first, by rason of his sthickles an’ fins all p’intin’ the other way.  Whin he takes it, sorr, jist let him run away wid it as far as he likes, but the minit he turns to swallow it, an’ says to himself, ’What an illigant breakfast this is, to be sure!’ that minit slap the hook into his jaw, an’ hould on to him for dear life.”

These excellent instructions I obeyed with no little difficulty.  My cork came up in the back water under the rock on which I stood, and there, almost at my very feet, it disappeared.  I could not believe that a bass had taken it, but all doubt on the subject was dispelled by the shrill whir of my reel as the fine silk line spun out at a tremendous rate.  The fish had darted across the current, and only stopped after he had taken out over two hundred feet of line.

“Now, sorr, jist make a remark to him,” whispered Mr. McGrath; and I struck as hard as I could.  “Illigant, begorra!” said he as the fish, maddened and frightened, leaped out of the water.  “Look at him looking for a dentist, bedad!”

It was peculiarly delightful to feel that fish pull—­to get a firm hand on him, and have him charge off with an impetuosity that involved more line or broken tackle—­to feel that vigorous, oscillating pull of his, and to note the ease and strength with which he swam against the powerful current or dashed across the boiling eddy below.