the bridge itself.
One day I cast a yellow-body fly, (a clumsy affair, but the best I
had, having lost my fly book on the cars) and as it fell on the water
I let it drift under the bridge, more in carelessness than by intent,
and as it reached the rich bank of green weeds out of my sight, I
felt the tug and magnetic vibration that every angler knows so well.
Quick as a flash I dropped from the bridge to the bank, ran knee deep
into the stream, and fighting the fish clear of the structure and
reeds, landed a three-pound five-ounce beauty at my side on the
bank. "That's the first fish I've seen caught from the bridge," said
an admiring native, and it was the only one I ever caught, although
my line has dropped there many times before and since.

Now I know the trick. I made a stout cord fast to a stump above the
bridge, and let my canoe float down under and through the bridge,
then I cast my fly, and a boy sitting in the bows slowly pulled me
through again up to the stump. The fish seeing no splash, only the
passing shadow of the silent canoe, took my fly readily, and in the
early morning I was sure of a fairly good catch. If fished for from
the bridge, they will lie there, and never move a fin; the current is
weak, and if scared away by a stone or twig, they will return in a
second or two, almost to the same spot. I fancy the first one I
caught was not a regular "bridge bass," but was one swimming up
stream at the edge of the weeds in search of his breakfast. Now if
any of my fishing friends think they can catch these bridge bass, I
will guarantee to show them (or they can go and see for themselves)
from six to a dozen of the beauties lying there at any time.

When I do not succeed with them to my satisfaction, I get some one to
systematically drop stones and drive them up stream, where, perhaps
out of pure unadulterated cussedness, they seem to readily take a
fly. A great advantage of this spot up stream is that the baby bass
and sun fish give but little trouble. The principal nuisances are
the large eels. If the line touches the bottom for an instant an eel
seems certain to be waiting for it, and I would as readily handle a
squid as an eel.

My brother, who frequently accompanies me, is not a fisherman and
prefers fishing for eels, and by a rule of contrariness the bass
bother him quite as much as the fresh-water "snakes," as I call them,
bother me.

Among my troubles I must not forget the mud turtles and snappers