t
foliage festooned by gray moss. Here was a day to warm the heart of any
fisherman; here was the beautiful river, celebrated in many a story;
here was the famous guide, skilled with oar and gaff, rich in
experience. What sport I would have; what treasure of keen sensation
would I store; what flavor of life would I taste this day! Hope burns
always in the heart of a fisherman.

Attalano was in harmony with the day and the scene. He had a cheering
figure, lithe and erect, with a springy stride, bespeaking the Montezuma
blood said to flow in his Indian veins. Clad in a colored cotton shirt,
blue jeans, and Spanish girdle, and treading the path with brown feet
never deformed by shoes, he would have stopped an artist. Soon he bent
his muscular shoulders to the oars, and the ripples circling from each
stroke hardly disturbed the calm Panuco. Down the stream glided long
Indian canoes, hewn from trees and laden with oranges and bananas. In
the stern stood a dark native wielding an enormous paddle with ease.
Wild-fowl dotted the glassy expanse; white cranes and pink flamingoes
graced the reedy bars; red-breasted kingfishers flew over with friendly
screech. The salt breeze kissed my cheek; the sun shone with the
comfortable warmth Northerners welcome in spring; from over the white
sand-dunes far below came the faint boom of the ever-restless Gulf.

We trolled up the river and down, across from one rush-lined lily-padded
shore to the other, for miles and miles with never a strike. But I was
content, for over me had been cast the dreamy, care-dispelling languor
of the South.

When the first long, low swell of the changing tide rolled in, a
stronger breeze raised little dimpling waves and chased along the water
in dark, quick-moving frowns. All at once the tarpon began to show,
to splash, to play, to roll. It was as though they had been awakened by
the stir and murmur of the miniature breakers. Broad bars of silver
flashed in the sunlight, green backs cleft the little billows, wide
tails slapped lazily on the water. Every yard of river seemed to hold a
rolling fish. This sport increased until the long stretch of water,
which had been as calm as St. Regis Lake at twilight, resembled the
quick current of a Canadian stream. It was a fascinating, wonderful
sight. But it was also peculiarly exasperating, because when the fish
roll in this sportive, lazy way they will not bite. For an hour I
trolled through this whirlpool of flying sp