j8o The Fishing Bay. 



make his way through the heavy clouds, the screaming swifts chase 

 each other high in the air above our heads, while the swallows skim 

 over the margin of the river in pursuit of the gnats and flies, whose 

 brief ephemeral existence is cut off almost ere they have begun their 

 short-lived enjoyment. The little sedge-warbler keeps inc2ssantly 

 hopping about the flags and willows in which the boathouse is shel- 

 tered, uttering its merry and ceaseless note j while the kingfisher, 

 startled from the willow on which he was perched, dashes down the 

 stream with the speed of an arrow. The dense mass of candocks 

 and water-lilies to our right are the secure resort of many a jack, 

 who lies there in grim repose awaiting his daily prey -, and by the 

 muddy bank of the osier-bed which faces us is the best tench-hole 

 in the whole river. Oh ! these are all every-day sights and scenes 

 familiar to the angler and lover of rural life, and, trifling as they 

 may appear to be to the careless observer, the true lover of nature 

 treasures them in his heart j but it is not until, perhaps, far absent 

 from the spot where he has so often observed them, that their beauty 

 is fully appreciated. It is then that '' distance lends enchantment 

 to the view," and when, in after years, the thoughts for a moment 

 recur to these pleasant visions of youth and home, do they rush 

 across the mind with their full force. But, like the bubble on the 

 stream, they are seen only for an instant before they burst and dis- 

 appear in the headlong currents of the waves of life. 



We sprit down in the punt to the old locks, about a mile down 

 the stream, dropping a trimmer or two behind us on the road. We 

 leave the pant at the top gate; and, as the locks are closed, the 

 deep still hole at the bottom gate is the spot where we commence 

 operations. The stream runs slow, the water is dark and low, and 

 all promises well. Rods are soon put together, each one chooses a 

 bait to his own fancy, and takes his place. For a while not a word 

 is spoken, each being too much occupied in watching his float. At 

 length, after a slight move, one float disappears under water, and in 

 a few seconds a perch of about one pound is struggling on the bank 

 — first fish, upon which a little jealousy has depended. Another, 



