8 AN ANGLER'S HOURS i 



victims from the flocks and herds that 

 pasture among the river- meads. But our 

 honest angler has nought to do with mud, 

 and he knows right well that fishes love it 

 not, when they may make their feeding- 

 ground on good appetising gravel. He 

 wastes no time, however, in inward con- 

 templation, but strides along the bank until 

 he comes to a little promontory of firm 

 ground that juts out into the stream. 

 Below this the water seems to repent of 

 its unreasoning haste, and turns and creeps 

 along the bank, as though it would retrace 

 its course. This little bay or eddy is 

 fringed with rushes, among which lies a 

 tiny piece of paper, a casual waif borne 

 hither by the breeze, a man would say. 

 And yet 'tis not the work of nature but of 

 art ; for last night there came one furtively 

 with a dark lantern, who with unerring 

 hand cast into the water at this self-same 

 spot ten large balls compounded of rich 

 bread, yielding bran, and easy clay, and 

 finally placed the piece of paper where it is 

 now plain to see. And he has come again 

 in this twilight of the gods to reap the 

 reward of his patient toils. 



