192 FISHING GOSSIP. 
of success, and a flash might cut the line too closely 
for personal comfort, as happened once upon a time, 
the angler had better not select what my Cheshire 
friends call a “thunnery evening” for a night-angling 
experiment. 
The hour, however, has at length arrived to de- 
scend, rods and net in hand, to the lake. The moment 
is accurately and gracefully defined by old Sam 
Rogers. It is just when— 
“ Twilight’s soft dews steal o’er the village green, 
With magic tints to harmonise the scene,” 
that this step in advance is to be taken. Our boat 
awaits us in a little creek on the shore, and is simply 
made fast to a submerged pine stump, which Pat, our 
native “skipper” for the night, declares “must have 
been growing long before Adam was a gossoon,” a cor- 
ruption probably of the French garcon. Now, whether 
Adam really passed through that interesting stage of 
humanity referred to in Pat's remark may of course 
be doubted, though Dr, Colenso’s high authority is on 
his side of the argument. 
But we are spared the necessity of philosophising 
further “on our stump,” for Pat has unloosed the 
chain, and sent us and himself afloat amongst the 
rustling reeds, whose gentle murmurs, so familiar -to 
the fisherman’s ear, are certainly more agreeable to 
listen to than the appalling discords of geology. 
