62 AN ANGLER'S HOURS iv 



gimp. A lobworm is affixed to the hook 

 and flung with much force and splashing 

 into some little opening among the weeds, 

 where it remains until night draws down 

 her veil. The villagers sit in a contem- 

 plative row under this ancient grey wall, 

 which once enclosed a grange fortressed 

 against unquiet times. But now all is peace, 

 and the cooing of doves in the garden trees 

 has replaced the clash of arms. About once 

 a week the villagers have a bite ; a bean- 

 pole is lifted by stalwart arms, and a two- 

 pound tench is summarily brought to bank ; 

 but for the most part evening's solemn still- 

 ness is undisturbed by rude conflict. This 

 is not surprising. Apart from the uncom- 

 promising nature of the tackle, there are other 

 reasons against success. The canal is here 

 one solid mass of weed. No barge has passed 

 this way for years, and so there is no object 

 in keeping the channel clear in the summer. 

 If the angler wishes to fish, he must make 

 a clear space for himself with the end 

 of his bean-pole. Hence it comes that 

 the villagers angle in two feet of water not 

 more than six feet away from the bank, 

 while the tench live secure out of reach. 



