254 THE BARYL IN MAY. 



the cage of a garrulous canary. That was a 

 neat cast, though I say it. The gossamer line 

 waves from the lithe top joint, and the quiver- 

 ing lure falls as deftly on the stream as a leaf 

 overweighted by a single dewdrop from the 

 flower of the monthly rose. There again is a 

 performance worthy a master of the craft. 

 Ha ! he has it ! The fish is a beauty, not 

 bigger than half a pound, if as much ; but ob- 

 serve the glowing garnet jewels on his back, 

 the rich brown and bronze in which they are 

 set, the gold tinge on his white belly, the 

 fading glint of his eye, in which the colours 

 alternately flash and die out, like the prisoned 

 light in the opal. Pluck for him a death 

 couch of emerald grass, of yellow primroses, 

 and preparing this fragrant bed in the end of 

 of your basket, try what you can do to find a 

 companion for the primal captive of your rod. 

 The Daryl takes a leap about a mile higher 

 up, and it is best to make a short cut to reach 

 the mimic cataract. You walk across the rich, 

 wet fields, and through a grove of elms, in 

 which a big colony of rooks are cawing over 

 the family affairs of the time. Mr. Herbert 



