If it happened that we were on hand too early for cat to bite, we fished for suckers, of which there were great numbers about the mouth of the little bay. It is from this harmless fish, you must know, that feeds mainly on succulent grasses, that the good people of Illinois derive their patronymic. Why it, any more than another, should have had so great an honor thrust upon it I do not know, unless, indeed, because of its great prevalence in the sluggish streams of the state. Viewed from the exterior, it is as shapely a fish as one could wish, but inwardly is full of bones; not diffused, indeed, as in the case of other fish, but tied up like faggots or sheaves of wheat, and in such diminutive parcels that no ingenuity of the gourmand is sufficient to evade the delicate morsels. The mouth of the sucker is its striking feature, however, and from this it derives its name. Without teeth and featureless, this interesting fish has a way of puckering its lips into a knot and then pursing them out suddenly, as a child will in derision of its playmates; or perhaps more like a man who, firmly drawing in his lips, as if nothing could ever move him from his set purpose, suddenly relaxes and gives up all without a struggle. Nothing could exceed our delight in snaring the inoffensive creatures that frequented the little inlet, and indeed it is difficult to imagine any form of recreation more refreshing or likely to relax the overstrained nerves of men. This more especially, I may say, in the case of philosophers and others not given to much hardness of muscle. Its restive properties, too, are far greater, I am constrained to believe, than are to be found in the new-fangled reel and more alert game, whereby your nervous system is much overwrought and the fish put to a vexation of spirit every kindly man must deplore. In this way, and as I have described, the days went by until two months had come and gone, when one afternoon, as we sat watching our lines, Cousin Rolland remarked, spitting on his bait a second time: "Your Cousin Angeline has more work to do, Gilbert." This news, while important, as was everything concerning Cousin Angeline, seemingly did not concern me, and so I only answered: "Yes, cousin." "She has a correspondent." "Has she?" I replied, absently, pulling in a bullhead that wriggled on the hook as if some one were tickling it to death. "Cousin Angeline’s fond of writing and accounts." "This has nothing to do with the charities, though," he answered, reflectively. "I suppose letter-writing’s strange here?" I replied, throwing the bullhead back into the water and putting on a fresh worm. "But we ought always to write to our kin, and Cousin Angeline’s got a lot, you know." "Yes, including papa and the two nephews; but it is not her kin who are writing to her now," he replied, jerking at his line. "Drat it! that’s the third worm that turtle has picked off my hook."