"Pumpkin-seeds? A fine-looking fish, are they not? I know them. Somewhat
depressed, and extended laterally?"

"Guesso. You're 'tendin' school at the 'cadummy, ain't ye?"

"Yes, we're there."

"Thought so. Ye-es. We-ell, it's a good thing for the 'cadummy. Hope
you'll ketch some o' them seedlin' fish. Ef ye do, you kin jest stuff
'em with big words, and bake 'em. They do say as how fish is good for
the brains."

"Don't we turn off somewhere along here?" asked Dabney.

"Ye-es. Green Pond's right down there, through the woods. Not more'n a
mile. See't ye don't lose yer way. What bait have ye got?"

"Bait? Angle-worms. Are they the right thing?"

"Worms? Ye-es. They'll do. Somebody told ye, did they? 'Twon't take ye
long to larn how to put 'em on."

There was not a great deal to be made out of that old New-England
farmer; and his good-natured contempt for a lot of ignorant young "city
fellers," in good clothes, did not require any further expression.

They left him with a wide grin on his wrinkled face, and followed his
directions over the nearest fence; but with ideas concerning their
probable string of fish, that were rather "depressed" than "extended."