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.
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