Chapter 10

Uncle Eb was a born lover of fun. But he had a solemn way of
fishing that was no credit to a cheerful man. It was the same when
he played the bass viol, but that was also a kind of fishing at which
he tried his luck in a roaring torrent of sound. Both forms of
dissipation gave him a serious look and manner, that came near
severity. They brought on his face only the light of hope and
anticipation or the shadow of disappointment.

We had finished our stent early the day of which lam writing.
When we had dug our worms and were on our way to the brook
with pole and line a squint of elation had hold of Uncle Eb's face.
Long wrinkles deepened as he looked into the sky for a sign of the
weather, and then relaxed a bit as he turned his eyes upon the
smooth sward. It was no time for idle talk. We tiptoed over the
leafy carpet of the woods. Soon as I spoke he lifted his hand with a
warning 'Sh - h!' The murmur of the stream was in our ears.
Kneeling on a mossy knoll we baited the hooks; then Uncle Eb
beckoned to me.

I came to him on tiptoe.

'See thet there foam 'long side o' the big log?' he whispered,
pointing with his finger.

I nodded.

'Cre-e-ep up jest as ca-a-areful as ye can,' he went on whispering.
'Drop in a leetle above an' let 'er float down.'

Then he went on, below me, lifting his feet in slow and stealthy
strides.

He halted by a bit of driftwood and cautiously threw in, his arm
extended, his figure alert. The squint on his face took a firmer grip.
Suddenly his pole gave a leap, the water splashed, his line sang in
the air and a fish went up like a rocket. As we were looking into
the treetops it thumped the shore beside him, quivered a moment
and flopped down the bank He scrambled after it and went to his
knees in the brook coming up empty-handed. The water was
slopping out of his boot legs.

'Whew!' said he, panting with excitement, as I came over to him.
'Reg'lar ol' he one,' he added, looking down at his boots. 'Got away
from me - consarn him! Hed a leetle too much power in the arm.,

He emptied his boots, baited up and went back to his fishing. As I
looked up at him he stood leaning over the stream jiggling his
hook. In a moment I saw a tug at the line. The end of his pole
went under water like a flash. It bent double as Uncle Eb gave it a
lift. The fish began to dive and rush. The line cut the water in a
broad semicircle and then went far and near with long, quick
slashes. The pole nodded and writhed like a thing of life. Then
Uncle Eb had a look on him that is one of the treasures of my
memory. In a moment the fish went away with such a violent rush,
to save him, he had to throw his pole into the water.

'Heavens an'