*c8 AN ANGLER'S BASKET. 



headache won't give you whisky." Perhaps this sound 

 reflection was in the mind of a very intimate personal friend 

 on an occasion years ago just above the falls on the Wharfe 

 at Kilnsey. We agreed to meet for lunch at that spot on 

 the stroke of noon. He sat on a rock in the centre of the 

 river and handed out the victuals. Business proceeded with 

 regularity and satisfaction for some time, until he got the 

 screw top off his flask. At that moment he lost his balance 

 and fell backwards into nearly three feet of water. Nothing 

 was visible of him in the rushing stream but his head and 

 an uplifted arm holding aloft the uncorked flask in manly 

 desperation. " Here," said he, as I went to his assistance, 

 " catch hold of this ; never mind me, but for goodness sake 

 keep the river out of this whisky." 



Two sailors had been interviewing a publican not wisely 

 but too well, and finally strolled along the quay side in the 

 moonlight. Being both half seas over, one of them fell 

 off the wall into about 26 feet of water. His pal on the quay 

 side, unmoved, calmly watched the struggles of the drowning 

 tar, and slowly removing his pipe from his mouth, as he 

 threw up his arms in search of the proverbial straw, " Give 

 it up, Bill, and be a man ; you know you can't swim, what's 

 the use of struggling ? " 



Two friends had separated to fish different salmon pools, 

 and on the return of one to find how the other had progressed 

 in the meantime, he found him busy playing a flock of about 

 200 sheep up and down a forty acre field adjoining the river, 

 and apparently well hooked in the whole lot of them. 

 " What in the name of goodness are ye trying to do now, 

 John ? " was the enquiry addressed to the busy angler, 

 perspiring profusely. " Well, said the other, " I had the 



