THE CURVED MEADOW. 265 



Some day perhaps one Sunday evening I 

 mean to attach a foot of strong catapult elastic 

 to a walking stick, fasten four feet of gut to it, 

 with a winged olive at the point, and then just 

 see whether it floats. 



Imagination paints these fish as ones which 

 have been severely pricked in seasons gone by, 

 which have given up the open water and taken 

 refuge with Tityrus. Not only are they con- 

 firmed surface feeders, but they continue at it 

 the greater part of the day. It sounds 

 desperately unsporting not to leave them in their 

 hermitage; and yet I suppose I must do so. 



Perhaps a solemn vow to restore the possible 

 victim to his asylum, would meet the case. If 

 they had just some sense of shyness, one would 

 not mind so much; but they rise inordinately, 

 while staring you in the face, and gulp like 

 gourmands who adjust a dinner napkin under 

 their triple chins before wallowing in turtle 

 soup. And, all this time, their fellows are 

 taking chances in the open water, braving a 

 casualty list during the long evenings of each 

 summer campaign, with the risk of having their 

 weights and fighting qualities mentioned in the 

 leaves of an angling despatch. It does not 

 seem fair. 



Do you ever find you are apt to put certain 

 places as it were upon pedestals, just as one 

 puts certain friends? There are times when 

 one calls up the small panorama of a favourite 



