THE WONDERS OF THE SHORE. 137 
hangs, helpless and motionless, a mere velvet string 
across the hand. Ask the neighbouring Annelids 
and the fry of the rock fishes, or put it into a vase 
at home, and see. It lies motionless, trailing itself 
among the gravel; you cannot tell where it begins 
or ends; it may be a dead strip of sea-weed, Himan- 
thalia lorea, perhaps, or Chorda filum; or even a 
tarred string. So thinks the little fish who plays 
over and over it, till he touches at last what is too 
surely a head. In an instant a bell-shaped sucker 
mouth has fastened to his side. In another instant, 
from one lip, a concave double proboscis, just like 
a tapir’s (another instance of the repetition of forms), 
has clasped him like a finger; and now begins the 
struggle: but in vain. He is being “played” with 
such a fishing-line as the skill of a Wilson or a 
Stoddart never could invent; a living line, with 
elasticity beyond that of the most delicate fly-rod, 
which follows every lunge, shortening and lengthen- 
ing, slipping and twining round every piece of gravel 
and stem of sea-weed, with a tiring drag such as no 
Highland wrist or step could ever bring to bear on 
