The Fishing Bay, 179 



sorted J the tackle to be overhauled 3 lines tried, hooks spliced, gut 

 bottoms proved -, and many an anxious eye was turned towards the 

 setting sun, and two or three journeys made to the river-side to 

 ascertain the colour and the height of the water. Before these ar • 

 ranofements are concluded, the sun has sunk behind the old wood 

 which bounds the western horizon on the other side of tlie river; 

 and as '^ early to bed and early to rise " should ever be the angler's 

 motto, we are soon in full enjoyment of that undisturbed re- 

 pose which few of us can ever hope for after the days of boyhood 

 have passed. At seven in the morning we leave the house with our 

 factotum — an amphibious sort of fellow, half gamekeeper, half 

 fisherman — laden with the minnow kettles and the landing net — 

 and, not the least important thing on a day like the present, the 

 basket of provisions. 



We have to call on an old friend who lives just outside the vil- 

 lage, to breakfast; and, although we are pretty punctual to our time, 

 he is already awaiting our arrival. His cordial greeting as he meets 

 us at the gate is as cordially exchanged, and, as we set down our 

 rods and tackle in the little trellised porch before his door, we all 

 agree that, had old Izaak himself bespoken the day, we could not 

 have been more fortunate in the weather. Our friend, who is this 

 day to be the captain of the party, is a veteran both in " flood and 

 fitld;" and, although a slight bend in the shoulders and the scant 

 silvery locks proclaim tliat he is traveUingin the downhill of life, the 

 hrm step, the bronzed, ruddy, healthy, weather-beaten cheek, and 

 the keen eye, prove that the ravages of time have had but little 

 etlect on a frame so well seasoned by the healthful pursuits of a 

 country life. 



We are too anxious to be off to waste much time at breakfast; 

 and while we are at the boat-house getting the punt in order, the 

 deep, lull-toned chimes ringing forth the hour of eight from the tall 

 spire in the distance, strike upon our ear "with voice prolonged 

 and measured fall," mellowed by the water over which the sound 

 parses. 



The ripple on the stream is beautiful, and the sun can scarcely 



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