A Day in a Punt. 23 



stuck a red worm on my hook and let the float meander on the chance of 

 there being another perch promiscuously contiguous. Having finished our 

 repast and lighted our pipes, and resolved into a lazy chat for half an hour 

 or so, I began peering about for my float, which I hadn't seen lately. 

 " Where in Nature is the float ? " and as I couldn't see it I took up the 

 rod and lifted it, and I found my float two feet under water and my line 

 hold of something and in a weed. Some patience and pulling disclosed a 

 l^lb. chub; and as the day was getting warmish, we thought we would 

 give the swim a rest and push up to the tumbling bay hill, where there was 

 always a crowd of chub scouring at this time. Bill rummaged his stores 

 and produced an artificial cockchafer. This we stuck upon a single bamboo 

 rod, fixed three or four gentles on the hook, and I was put in the bow to 

 whirl it about and knock chubs on the head with it. 



At the first cast there was a general rush at it, and the biggest, of course, 

 got it. He came out 2|lb. The next cast there was no rush, but a 

 good fish took, so I hauled him out. One more came to hook, and then 

 their curiosity was satisfied, and I could not coax up another, and we went 

 back to the swim ; but tlie fish were off, and we did little, so we tried under 

 the weir with a live bait for a jack, and I managed to get two runs, and 

 once I got a fish of ] 21b. or 141b. up to the surface, but somehow he got off, 

 to my intense disgust. 



Then the Irish stew came up. It was perfect, though some might have 

 thought it over well fixed up with onions. But taste on the Thames 

 runs rather to that fragrant vegetable. Then we had a glass or two of grog 

 and some very large meerschaums, and the fishing was not closely pursued. 

 The day grew warm, and a gentle langour prevailed, and what with the 

 " hum- hum-burr " of the weir, and the night walk, &c., one got a little 

 drowsy, and got to wondering what the weir was saying. It was singing a 

 murmuring song, now loud and wild, like some sort of barbaric music, and 

 then sinking lowly into a soft slumberous melody, with scraps of things, 

 but nothing we could catch. What was it ? Now it grows louder and 

 more distinct. It is the hum of many voices. It is night, too ; and under 

 the stars I see a multitude of half-naked men, with wild, tangled locks, 

 and stalwart limbs, labouring indefatigably ; and what a hammering and 



