"Well, that's smart!" said Horace, picking her up. "There, you sit down next time, and I'll prop up the pole with a rock—this way. There, now, you hold it a little easy, and when you feel a nibble you let me know."
"What's a nibble?" asked Prudy, shaking the line.
"A nibble? Why, it's a bite."
They sat quite still for some minutes, the hot sun glaring on Prudy's bare head with its rings of soft golden hair.
"Now, now!" cried she suddenly, "I've got a nibble!"
Horace sprang to draw up her line.
"I feel it right here on my neck," said the child; "I s'pose it's a fly."
"Now, look here," said Horace, rather vexed, "you're a little too bad. You made me drop my line just when I was going to have a nibble. Wait till you feel the string wiggle, and then speak, but don't scream."
The children sat still for a few minutes longer, and no sound was heard but now and then a wagon going over the bridge. But they might as well have dropped their lines in the sand for all the fish they caught. Horace began to wish he had gone to school.
"O dear!" groaned Prudy, getting tired, "I never did see such fishes. I guess they don't want to be catched."