168 THE SCIENTIFIC ANGLER. 



" Ah! how do you account for that?" we inquired. 



"Oh, them weeds bother um; they loses the fish and 

 tackle an' all; " and after delivering himself of this grati- 

 fying reflection, the old keeper calmly inserted his pipe 

 between his teeth, and his hands in the pockets of his 

 breeches, as a preliminary to seeing the fun. At the 

 second or third cast we hooked a fish, and by a strict and 

 prompt application of the tactics previously described, 

 the fish wriggled through the breakers in a style thor- 

 oughly earnest and effective. Once clear of the weeds 

 we relaxed the pressure upon the rod, playing the fish at 

 the extremity of a short line until exhausted. 



"You've been very lucky with this un, sir." 



"We shall be equally as lucky you will find with the 

 next," was our reply. At the very next cast the game 

 was repeated, with the same result, nor did we desist 

 until we had sufficiently punished the cunning old fox, 

 by an extract sufficient to cram both creels with the lazy 

 monsters, whose presence near the bridge we knew to be 

 the keeper's pride. 



LANDING. In trout fishing the landing-net should in- 

 variably be included in the necessary apparatus.* The 

 tackle is never constructed with a view to extract fish 

 bodily out of their element, moreover it is anything but 



* This matter of landing-nets recalls to mind a novel accident when 

 fishing some years ago on Tim Grey's Run in Ly coming Co. , Pa. After 

 walking some miles up the run, which at the time was very full and 

 rapid, I entered the stream to find, on killing my first fish, that my 

 landing-net was missing. Like all other earnest trouters I was not dis- 

 mayed, and soon improvised a net out of my rather stiff-brimmed fishing 

 hat. How awkwardly I used it must be blushingly untold, but the last 

 fish, a good stout fellow with muscles of iron, that it was used upon, 

 gave a flirt out of it, and at the same moment an extra whirl of the 

 down pouring waters flirted the improvised net out of my hand, and 

 from that hour I have never seen my Derby. It went spinning and dip- 

 ping down the stream which was bank high and in full vigor of current. 

 I continued to fish, hatless, for hours, landing my victims on the shore 

 whenever an apt spot appeared. 



