CHAPTER VI. 



HASTINGS LAKE. MY POETICAL FISHING FRIEND. 

 ANGLING FOR AN OTTER. 



When but a callow youth, I used to go a-fishing with 

 a young man of the same age as myself. He was a 

 gentle, lamb-like creature with large bovine eyes and 

 long, black hair; uncut from the day he was born. His 

 facial expression reminded one of an old cow who 

 has long ceased to trouble herself with the cares of 

 maternity. He was a poet, and used to seek my com- 

 pany and the pleasant waterside to contemplate loveli- 

 ness and compose poems. He stuck to me with a per- 

 tinacity that was truly embarrassing, and the only 

 reason I could not rid myself of him was due to the 

 fact of being too tender-hearted to kill him. 



He once wrote an ode to his fishing rod which he re- 

 cited to it one morning just previous to using it, and 

 the rod was so utterly demoralized it snapped into thir- 

 teen pieces the first cast he attempted. I merely men- 

 tion this fact to show how atrocious his muse must 

 have been. 



The only time I ever licked him was when he at- 

 tempted to read me some verses. He called them 

 "Crumblets of Angling Reminiscences." They were as 

 follows: 



"The little streamlet on the hill, 



Within the village church, 

 From which, three weeks ago to-night, 



I collared that wall-eyed perch. 



"Away beyond the hamlet's reach, 



With many a pout and pucker, 

 Meanders the tiny rivulet 



Where I cinched, that eight-pound sucker. 



"And just below the garden patch 



Of Mickey Doolan's shanty, 

 Is the alder tree that sheltered me 



While I made the bullheads ante." 



The method by which at last I rid myself of him was 

 (49) 



