106 AN ANGLER'S BASKET. 



Once upon a time at a riverside inn somewhere, say in 

 New Guinea, a number of Yorkshire anglers were seated 

 before the fire smoking, laughing, chatting. Among them 

 was one who had just come, and he was tired and wanted to 

 go to bed. At 10-0 p.m. he enquired if his bedroom was 

 ready. He was told it would be ready " shortly." At 

 10-30 he received for an answer " not yet ; " at i i-o " soon ;" 

 at 11-30 he heard the cheerful news it would be ready 

 directly now, as they had just finished washing the sheets. 



Said a Scotch minister, bilious and long visaged, to a boy 

 who was fishing on the Sawbath Day, " My boy, what 

 wull your fayther say when he kens ye fish o' the Lord's 

 Day ?" " I dinna ken ; ye mon just ask him." " And 

 whaur is he ?" " He is just yon i' the garden." " What I 

 yon puir auld mon with his back sae bent ?" " Ay, that's 

 my fayther, he is just digging me some mair worms, ye ken.'* 



A shock-headed lad rushed into the parson's study one 

 night and said, " My mother wants you to come and bury 

 mi fayther." " Dear me !" said the clergyman, " is he 

 dead ? when did he die ?" " About seven weeks sin' " said 

 the boy. The parson's hair stood on end. " He must," 

 said he, with a cough, " be in a dreadful state." " Not he," 

 said the lad, " he's reyt enough ; we were just in t' middle 

 o' hay time when he deed, and my mother hadn't time to 

 bother wi' him, so she just salted him and turned him o'er 

 once or twice, and he's as sweet as a posy." 



I recall a yarn respecting an Irishman who went, not to 

 his own priest, but to the priest of a neighbouring church, 

 and said, "Av ye please, your reverence, would ye mind 



