H AN ANGLER'S HOURS i 



maledicatur resounds on the breeze. If we 

 may adapt the words of the poet, " He had 

 not fought him in vain, but in sorry plight 

 was he " ; for one eel, be it never so small, 

 can make itself an intolerable burden to a 

 man who holds that cleanliness is next to 

 godliness. But he is not daunted ; swiftly 

 he repairs his damaged tackle and re-baits, 

 not again with a worm, but with a piece of 

 paste so large that one would think twelve 

 fish in these degenerate days could scarcely 

 swallow it. 



It is not long before the little float again 

 disappears, and the timely strike induces 

 another battle. This time it is brisker, 

 and the feeble rod is more than once in 

 jeopardy. Cunning and patience, however, 

 succeed, and the quarry is safely landed. 

 This is no bream, but a fish whose ruddy 

 fins, silver scales, and gold -flecked eyes 

 bewray the roach. And truly he is a noble 

 sight ; a pound and a quarter is his weight, 

 but his fighting power exceeds that of his 

 cousin the bream who sought the death 

 before him. Again the hook is baited and 

 returned to the stream ; and again, after no 

 long interval, it darts under like lightning. 



