ANGLING FOR BEATRICE. 



247 



it ! The dew on the grass, the lark singing 

 with so much heart that his song seemed to 

 rebound from the very vault of the skies, or to 

 break as it touched it and fall in a shower of 

 melody, the cool breath of the breeze, and the 

 gurgling talk of the water as it ran and rippled 

 against the sedges, they are present to me as I 

 write with a vividness that is almost trouble- 

 some. Here is a bank after old Walton's own 

 heart. A deep pool above a long stone slab, 

 covered with a beard of moss, over which the 

 Wimple runs and falls about a single foot, 

 making a creamy swirl which ought to be a 

 sure find for trout. I do not angle, I am 

 afraid, with either care or skill just now. I 

 while away an hour or two listlessly whipping 

 the water. " Hallo ! what's this ? " 



Making a cast into a ripple, round a big 

 boulder, I find my line firmly caught and 

 dragged into the air, my reel gives out, another 

 reel gives out, and, as I live, I am firmly en- 

 tangled. 



" Oh, how tiresome ! " some one exclaims 

 from the shelter of the alders at the opposite 

 side of the stream, and the next moment a 



