Indian creek was a pleasant stream, meandering through the rolling hills north of Clarion. Its waters were clear, alternating in quiet pools and swift little riffles over its gravel bed.
The air was mild and there was scarcely a cloud in the sky. They went up the creek for more than a mile before Henry Thorne found a pool that looked like it might have a few bullheads. The foliage overhead was thick and the water here looked almost turgid, far different from the clear stream which danced along its bed farther down.
The men baited their hooks and Janet and Helen sat down to watch the fishermen.
Helen’s father got the first bite, but he failed to land his fish. After that there was a long interval when the fishermen failed to talk and the fish failed to bite. Then the bullheads all seemed hungry and Janet’s father was the first to land one, but Henry Thorne was right behind him with a larger catch.
“Cut a willow stick for a stringer,” said Helen’s father, tossing a knife to her, and Helen, knowing exactly what was needed, found a forked willow and trimmed it down.
In less than an hour they had eleven bullheads on the willow stick.
“That’s plenty,” decided Janet’s father. “There’s no use spoiling the fun by taking more than we need. Shall we have them for supper tonight at my place?”
“Nothing doing. We’ll have them right here. Remember when we were kids and used to clean them along the creek, put them on a stick, and try and cook them over a fire?”
Janet’s father nodded.
“That’s what we’re going to do right now. We’ll clean the fish while the girls get some dry sticks and build a fire.”