terest of the
people. There is a species of fish that never looks at the clothes of the
man who throws in the bait, a fish that takes whatever is thrown to it,
and when once hold of the hook never tries to shake a friend, but submits
to the inevitable, crosses its legs and says "Now I lay me," and
comes out on the bank and seems to enjoy being taken. It is a fish that is
a friend of the poor, and one that will sacrifice itself in the interest
of humanity. This is the fish that the State should adopt as its trade
mark, and cultivate friendly relations with, and stand by. We allude to
the bullhead.

The bullhead never went back on a friend. To catch the bullhead it is not
necessary to tempt his appetite with porter house steak, or to display an
expensive lot of fishing tackle. A pin hook, a piece of liver, and a
cistern pole, is all the capital required to catch a bullhead. He lays
upon the bottom of a stream or pond in the mud, thinking. There is no fish
that does more thinking or has a better head for grasping great questions,
or chunks of liver than the bullhead. His brain is large, his heart beats
for humanity, and if he can't get liver, a piece of a tin tomato can will
make a meal for him. It is an interesting study to watch a boy catch a
bullhead. The boy knows where the bullhead congregates, and when he throws
in his hook it is dollars to buttons that "in the near future" he will get
a bite. The bullhead is democratic in all its instincts. If the boy's
shirt is sleeveless, his hat crownless, and his pants a bottomless pit,
the bullhead will bite just as well as though the boy is dressed in purple
and fine linen, with knee breeches and plaid stockings. The bull head
seems to be dozing--bulldozing we might say--on the muddy bottom, and a
stranger might say that he would not bite. But wait. There is a movement
of his continuation, and his cow-catcher moves gently toward the piece of
liver. He does not wait to smell of it, and canvas in his mind whether the
liver is fresh. It makes no difference to him. He argues that here is a
family out of meat. "My country calls and I must go," says the bullhead to
himself, and he opens his mouth and the liver disappears.

It is not certain that the boy will think of his bait for half an
hour, but the bullhead is in no hurry. He lays in the mud and proceeds to
digest the liver. He realizes that his days will not be long in the land,
or water, more properly speaking, and he argues if