280 SPRING WOODLAND BEAUTY. 



PISCATOR. And, how beautiful the complexion 

 of the woods on that other hill side, produced 

 by the admixture of an infinite variety of tints 

 of the opening leaves of the many different 

 kinds of trees that clothe the declivity. But to 

 our sport. That we may have success, we must 

 look mainly to our flies; we must content 

 ourselves with an occasional glance at the face of 

 nature a modest glance, as at the face of 

 a young beauty, and I believe the more pure 

 will be the enjoyment. What engrosses too 

 much the sense ends often in satiety. 



AMICUS. The wind is cold; the clouds dark 

 and lowering ; I fear we shall have no sport. I 

 have had only one rise. 



PISCATOR. We have not yet come to the best 

 ground, that off the outlet of the lake, on each 

 side of the gravelly shoal, where you see the 

 waves breaking, and between it and the reeds 

 to the right. 



AMICUS. Ah, you have a fish, and he fights 

 bravely. Where is the landing net ? 



PISCATOR. Forgotten, the boatmen says, in 

 our haste. Never mind. My pannier is at 

 hand ; it will serve the purpose for want of 

 a better. Immerse it well. There is our fish 



