12 AN ANGLER'S HOURS i 



for it is a long journey to far Olympus. 

 And then, when the god has bathed him 

 and has quaffed his morning-cup of nectar, 

 he puts on his raiment of gold with his 

 golden bow and arrows, raises his head above 

 the mountain-tops, and lo, it is full day. 



Some men say one thing and some 

 another, but we will always maintain that 

 fishes seldom begin their breakfast before 

 the sun has risen. Our friend has not yet 

 had a bite ; but just as the sun's orb appears 

 above the eastern hills his nearer float is 

 slightly jerked. An instant, and it glides 

 slowly beneath the surface. His hand is on 

 the rod, and a gentle strike meets with a 

 stubborn resistance. Then there is a glori- 

 ous contest, not sudden nor dashing, but a 

 battle of obstinacy and strength. The fish 

 fights deep down and circles round and 

 round, bending the little rod almost to the 

 water. The angler can employ no force, 

 for a single hair, even though it be the hair 

 of beauty, can only draw to itself a resisting 

 power by the subtlest of stratagem. Some 

 two minutes the battle lasts, and then the 

 circles grow shorter and shorter, the fish 

 gradually comes to the surface, and we 



