SATURDAY. 1 



SATURDAY. 



' A WORM at one end and a fool at the 

 other.'" .Maybe; 'tis an old saying. 

 Yet I am disposed to challenge its truth. The 

 only illustration which makes me concede any 

 accuracy to it is a man fishing with worm when 

 he ought to be using paste. And I am con- 

 strained to make the exception by the thought 

 of my own condition. 



It is a perfect summer day in this year of 

 grace 1911. From a sky of palest blue, in 

 which a few fleecy clouds hang all but motion- 

 less, descends aj wealth of sunlight. The cattle 

 seek the shade beneath the two old oaks where 

 they lie and chew an endless cud, while a 

 gentle breeze murmurs in the leaves and 

 struggles fitfully to temper the heat. I, too, 

 have sought the protection of a tree that over- 

 hangs the pond, and sit in the flat -bottomed 

 boat which is tied to a branch. My rod 

 projects from the side, and on the seat is a tin 



