34 I GO A-FISHING. 



occupied. When he was fairly out and on the bank he 

 was a subject for an artist. 



But I landed my fish. He of course left when the 

 Doctor plunged, and, crossing the basin, had doubtless 

 been in a state of astonishment at all the events of the 

 morning. He had not gotten rid of the hook; and when 

 I picked up my rod I felt him there, and soon brought 

 him to the landing-net, three pounds and three quarters 

 plump, as noble a fish as one could desire. 



The Doctor was not the man to give up a morning's 

 sport for a wetting, and, when we had with some difficulty 

 negotiated a treaty of peace, after what he called our gross 

 treason and abominable treatment of him, we sauntered 

 on down the stream, and filled our baskets with fine 

 specimens. 



We had a late breakfast, and a bountiful one, at the 

 Rookery. Nothing goes more to the heart of a fisherman 

 than a good cup of coffee, and this, if he is knowing, he 

 will manage to have almost every where. In Philip's 

 house it is so regularly good that it would doubtless make 

 itself of a morning in perfection if there were no cook. 

 Making good coffee is fast getting to be one of the lost 

 arts. Certainly one meets it now very seldom in Amer- 

 ica, and still more seldom in Europe. Traveling in our 

 own country, at hotels, railway stations, and even in pri- 

 vate houses, the stuff called coffee is a vile, wishywashy 

 drink, worse than warm water. There is no excuse for 

 this when good coffee is so easily made. The rule is as 

 simple as possible. First buy good coffee. If your sense 

 of smell is not educated to accomplish the purchase with 

 judgment, get some one who can smell to buy it for you. 

 Roast it brown. Then take a half-pint of ground coffee, 

 break an egg in it, pour on three half-pints of cold water. 



