DIES PISCATORI^. 583 



the gay Lothario, were you ? I know- some scaly old fellows 

 who play the same game ashore, stealthily patronizing Mrs. 

 Allen, subsidizing the tailor, bootmaker, dentist, and barber, 

 and slyly endeavoring to take off a discount of twenty-five 

 per cent, from old Father Time's bill. But that won't do, for 

 folks of any discernment know at a glance those spavined, 

 short-winded, shaky old fellows, who trot themselves out, as 

 if they were done-up for the horse-market. Lie there, my 

 Turveydrop, until I move down a little, and try under the 

 bushes, on the opposite side. 



With this length of line I can just come close enough to 

 the alders to miss them. Dance lightly, my brown girl, 

 and follow in her wake, dear widow, as I draw you hither- 

 ward. Ah, ha ! and so it is ; there is one dashing fellow who 

 sees charms in your homely dress. How he vaults ! — nine 

 rails, and a top rail ! Did you ever know Turner Ashby ? 

 Not Beau Turner — I mean Black Turner. Did he ever strad- 

 dle a bit of horse-flesh with more mettle ? None of your 

 Conestogas. There he goes again ! How long have you be- 

 longed to the circus ? But he can't run all day at that gait ; 

 he begins to flag, at last, and here he is now, coming in on 

 the " quarter stretch." There you are, at last — died as game 

 as a Dominica chicken. Once more, now. I knew it. — And 

 again. 



Three times my brace of beauties have come tripping home 

 across the deep whirling rapid, and three bright Trout lie on 

 the gravel behind me. I begin at last to long for the sound 

 of some friendly voice, and the sight of a good-humored face. 

 I must keep my appointment with Walter at the foot-bridge ; 

 so I am off. Some of the " Houseless'' don't like this solitary 

 sport. I know one of them who would as soon be guilty of 

 drinking alone ; but he is not a contemplative angler, and has 

 never realized how hungry some folks get through the winter 



