70 SELF-DEVOTION OF A FISIT. 



the coachman, who was much my friend, phicketl Cham- 

 jjion and Dunqdln, at my request, and gave mc as much 

 hair (black enough to be sure) as would make a dozen 

 lines. For three whole days did I twist and weave like 

 the Fates, and for three whole nights did I dream of 

 my work. Some rusty hooks I had originally in my 

 possession, which I found in an old fishing book belong- 

 ing to my ancestors. In fxct, I did not put the hook to 

 the rod and line, but my rod and line to the hook. I 

 next proceeded to the pigeon-house, and picking some 

 coarse feathers, made what I alone in the wide world 

 would have thought it becoming to have called a fly ; 

 but call it so I did, in spite of contradictory evidence. 

 Thus equipped, I proceeded to try my skill ; but exert 

 myself as I would, the line had domestic qualities, and 

 was resolved to stay at home. I never could get it fairly 

 away from the hazel sticks ; therefore it was that I 

 hooked no fish. But I hooked myself three times : once 

 in the knee-strings of my shorts, once in the nostril, and 

 again in the lobe of the ear. At length, after sundry 

 days of fruitless effort, like an infant Belial, I attempted 

 that by guile which I could not do by force; and drop- 

 ping the fly with my hand under a steep bank of the 

 stream, I walked up and down trailing it along : after 

 about a week's perseverance, I actually caught a trout. 

 Shade of Izaak Walton, what a triumph was there ! 

 That day I could not eat, — that night I slept not. 

 Even now I recollect the spot where that generous fish 

 devoted himself. 



As I grew up I became gradually more expert, and 

 at length saved money sufficient to buy a real fishing 



