In the cool of an early Saturday morning, a boy and his dad sit in a small green rowboat in the middle of a small, still lake. The dark lake is surrounded by green trees, the early-morning sun just brushing the very top limbs. Red-winged blackbirds trill from the bushes near the shore, their songs joined by an occasional harrumph from a bullfrog. The boy, about ten years old, wears a bright orange life vest. His dad, in his mid-30s, watches as the boy's bobber dances on the surface of the lake.

"Not yet," Dad says. "Wait 'til he takes the bait."

"How will I know when he takes the bait?" the boy asks.

"You'll see the bobber duck under the water. There! Just like that. Get 'im!"

The boy jerks hard on the pole. The bobber and a bare hook fly through the air and plop back on the water.

"Looks like he stole your bait," says Dad. "Better bring it back in."

It's been a morning of stolen bait. A good supply of garden-fresh nightcrawlers rests in a dirt-filled coffee can in the bottom of the boat. The boy reaches in, finds a good fat one, and threads it on his hook. He casts the line back over the side.

"Not so hard!" instructs Dad. "Look, you tossed your bait right off the hook. See over there?" Dad points to a circle on the smooth surface of the lake, a good distance away.

The boy's shoulders drop. "Dad? I'm cold." he says.

"It'll warm up pretty soon," replies Dad. "Put another worm on."

The boy re-baits his hook and casts again, more gently. The crawler is secure on the hook. The bobber dances for a moment and rests. The boy splashes his hand in the water to rinse off the dirt.

"Don't do that," says Dad, "you'll scare the fish away."

"The lake feels warm," says the boy, wiping his fingers on his jeans.

"That's because the water is warmer than the air. Once it warms up the lake will feel cool."

The boy turns back to watching his bobber. The boat drifts where it will, occasionally gliding too close to a garden of water lilies, just the place where fish hide but lines get tangled. Dad takes the oars and rows out a bit.

Again, the boy's bobber flutters for a moment and then drops. The boy tightens his grip on the cane pole.

"OK, not too hard this time," says Dad. "Just set the hook."

The boy snaps his wrists, and the bobber races away, and then heads back.

"Don't give him any slack now," warns Dad. "He'll spit the hook out. Just bring him over to me." The boy swings his pole toward the bow of the boat. Dad grabs the line. The boy raises up the tip of his pole, and a moment later a tiny crappie flops around on the bottom of the boat.

"All right!" shouts the boy. "I got one!"

"Yeah, you did!" Dad smiles.

"Can we keep him?" the boy asks.

"We'll have to measure him." Dad lays the fish on top of his tackle box. "Nope," Dad says. "He's only five inches. Toss 'im back"

The boy, impatient to try again, pulls the hook out of the fish.

"Not like that!" Dad scolds. "That hurts him. How would you like it if someone pulled a hook out of you?"

"I wouldn't." The boy looks down at the tiny fish in his hand.

"Well, then don't you do it. Now throw him back." The boy throws the fish in like he's in deep left field.

"Not so hard," says Dad. "You don't throw them so far."

The lifeless crappie floats several yards away. The sun has risen; its light shines about halfway down the trees. The boy shifts on his cushion, pulls another crawler out of the can, and casts his line again. Dad takes the oars and pushes the boat out toward deeper water.

"We should get a motor," the boy says.

Dad shakes his head. "This lake's too small for motors. We'll go out a little further and see if we can find some big ones."

Almost immediately both bobbers disappear. The boy lets out a whoop. "I think we found 'em!" Dad says as he grabs up the landing net.

"Yeah!" says the boy, pushing the toe of his sneaker against the side of the boat as he pulls hard on his pole, the tip bent down, nearly in the water. A moment later Dad scoops up an eight-inch rock bass. He sets it on the bottom of the boat and turns to help his son. Dad swings the landing net to the other side of the boat.

"Bring him to me," coaches Dad. "Don't let him spit the hook out." The boy twists himself as far as he can go, lifting the pole up, trying to keep the line tight. Dad makes a long reach with the landing net, and the boy has a big rock bass of his own. The boy sets his pole down and stares at their catch, his pulse pounding. He grins up at his dad.

"Looks like we caught dinner." Dad says.

"Aww, I wanted pizza," replies the boy.

Dad laughs. "You nut!" he says. "You'd turn down a fish dinner for pizza?"

"We always have pizza on Saturday."

Dad puts the fish on the stringer, then hooks up another crawler. The dad and his son pull in a few more rock bass, along with a few bluegills. Before long the sun shines high over the treetops. The fish move on.

"Well, whaddya think?" Dad asks. "Had enough?"

"Yeah," the boy says, "they're not biting anymore."

Dad brings in his line, flicking what's left of the crawler into the lake. The boy follows suit. "I'm getting hot now," he says, tugging on his life jacket. "Can I go swimming?"

"Not here," Dad says, pulling on the oars. "This isn't a swimming lake. There's no beach."

The ride lasts a minute more, and then the rowboat bumps against the shore. Dad climbs out over the bow.

"Just sit still," he cautions. "I'll pull you out." The boy sits tight on the seat as his dad drags the boat up on shore. The boy climbs out and looks back at the lake. Dad wraps the fish in newspaper in the trunk of the car. "Grab the tackle box, will ya, Bub?" The boy picks up the heavy box and carries it to his dad.

"I wish we lived here," the boy says as they walk back to retrieve their poles. "Can we come back some other time?"

"I wouldn't be a bit surprised," Dad assures him.