316 FISHING GOSSIP. 
“it’s the weather, decidedly the weather, sir,” and we 
all relapsed into silence. 
“Did you ever see ladies fish?” said I. “Fish?” 
said P.; “ladies fish—what for?” “For fish, of 
course ; could they possibly fish for anything else?” 
“Ah!” groaned P., “don’t talk about ladies fishing, 
it’s a sore subject, it’s so very expensive taking ladies 
out fishing.” “How’s that?” “Why, last season I 
betted away a small fortune in gloves, and one day 
when we were gudgeon-fishing I got positively furipus, 
and laid an even dozen pair that a certain young lady 
would not catch eleven gudgeon out of twelve, nibbles 
included. She caught the dozen right off, that’s a 
pair of gloves for every gudgeon. I very seldon win 
‘myself, and when I do I never get paid. Another 
thing, recollect—never let ladies out of the boat. One 
day the ladies got out to gather flowers, whilst we 
men went on fishing. All of a sudden the spooney 
who was with me dropped his rod, jumped up, cried 
out, ‘There goes Lucy !’ and walked straight over the 
gunwale into the river, and was very nearly drowned. 
Holloa! what's that? it’s music.” “It’s only Tityrus 
‘ playing a rustic song on his slender pipe,’ or rather 
his penny tin whistle. I wonder if Virgil’s ‘Tityrus’ 
was like this English musical shepherd. If you want 
to see a real live Tityrus, you will meet them in the 
London streets, dancing insanely for coppers on the 
pavement, and blowing into the leg of an inflated pig- 
