

FIFTH EMPTYING. 73 



Are there any herrings in the Wharfe ? I shall not think 

 any worse of Frank if I find he does tell me fibs about his 

 fishing. "HARRIET E ." 



" DEAR SIR, Since I last wrote you a letter Frank has 

 tried to make an angler of me and failed ; he took me to a 

 horrid place, with the river close by, and nothing else nearer 

 than five miles ; it rained all the time we were there, and 

 Frank was in raptures, though, of course, I could not go out of 

 the house ; as for going on the grass that was out of the 

 question. At the end of a week we nearly quarrelled, 

 because I told him that when next we went away I hoped 

 we would not go fishing, but would go somewhere on 

 pleasure. The way he went on was shameful to see, but he 

 always does that. Indeed that is what I want to write 

 about, so that if you publish this your misguided readers 

 may see how very patient the patient angler is. And you 

 will please understand that this is not fancy, but fact 

 indeed, mother says I have not painted him half what he 

 really is. Say it is a fine morning ; Frank is going fishing. 

 I am upstairs ; he is down, just ready to start indeed, I 

 expect to see him pass down the garden walk every minute 

 with his rod and basket. Suddenly I hear a commotion in 

 the room under me, and I know he has lost something. 

 Such a banging I never heard. ' Harriet,' he roars to me, 

 * Harriet ! Harriet ! ! ' louder each time, * where have you 

 put my reel ? I wish to goodness you would leave things 

 where you find them.' * I saw it,' I reply, ' in that room not 

 five minutes ago.' ' Saw it ! of course you saw it ; I knew 

 that ; if you hadn't seen it I should not have been looking 

 for it when I ought to be fishing it would have been here.' 

 Then he turns my work-basket inside out, upsets bobbins, 

 pins, buttons, pincushion, bodkins, worsted, threads, darning 

 needles, thimble, all in one dreadful tumble on the floor ; 



