26 



RECREATION. 



your heart fairly teeters with anticipation ; 

 and when, your nerves all thrilling, you 

 threw your line well out and let the feath- 

 ery bait kiss the water were you rewarded 

 by a lunging rise that started the blood 

 mantling to your forehead? 



I have. I fished that night with my 

 friend Adolphe, and when midnight stole on 

 us we were fain to ease our shoulders of the 

 weighty baskets, for behold, they were al- 

 most full. 



There is a fascination about moonlight 

 fishing that almost dulls the lustre of day- 

 light sport. You get your pipe well started, 

 you pull on your waders and step into the 

 pool. The water ripples away from your 

 feet in a thousand sparkles of light. The 

 moon's image is distorted, and the ripples 

 are carried on until they lap the great 

 moss-covered log that stretches half way 

 across the pool. 



We fished with worms that night, as I had 

 found by experience that the trout in this 

 locality rarely rose to the fly after nightfall. 

 I baited a small hook with an angle 

 worm, and, throwing it well out, let it sink 

 slowly to the bottom. Instantly there was 

 a quick, saucy tug ; not the wavering, un- 

 mistakable yank of the nerch, the surging 

 pull of the black bass, or the dull, heavy 

 strain of the pickerel ; but the soul-stirring, 

 gladsome tug of the Brook trout. I knew 

 just what the gentleman had done. He had 

 seen the succulent morsel descending 

 through the clear waters. He had dashed 

 at it instantly, seized it, turned his body 

 with a lightning flirt of his tail and 



dashed for home ; but before he reached 

 the shelter of the big log the hook had been 

 sent home and the gallant veteran was bat- 

 tling for his life and freedom. Now mak- 

 ing frantic endeavors to shake himself free 

 from the keen barbed hook, now heavily 

 surging from one side of the pool to the 

 other. He struggled bravely. But gradu- 

 ally I worked him toward me and soon 

 had the satisfaction of seeing him within 

 arms' length, his silvery contour show- 

 ing plainly in the bright moonlight, and 

 each drop of water scattered by his 

 threshing movements reflecting the yellow 

 rays in a thousand sparkles of light. A 

 final swoop of the net, and he was mine. 



Nor was my friend Adolphe less success- 

 ful at his end of the pond. We had no 

 lack of sport, and when tired of it, we hung 

 our treasures in a tree, away from prowling 

 mink and weasel, and lay down beside the 

 glowing fire, not so much for the sake of 

 warmth as for the delightful feeling of 

 comfort it afforded us. It was with feel- 

 ings of satisfaction we reviewed the even- 

 ing's events. 



I will not dwell on the sport of the 

 following day, as it was but a repetition of 

 the previous evening. In all we secured 

 about 4 score trout, many single ones 

 weighing upward of a pound. 



It is a fair spot to me, that little pond be- 

 tween the Northumberland hills, and I shall 

 always turn to it as an oasis in the desert 

 of my daily toil ; longing for the day when 

 again I shall wet my line in its limpid 

 waters. 



BRER JOHNSING'S SOLILOQUY. 



R. DAVIS. 



I don s'pose we orter grumble 



Caze we have so tough a lot, 

 But t'ings could be heap sight handier 



If dey wa'n't so drefful sot; 

 If de coon dat's in de swamp fiel' 



Would come up close to de aige, 

 It would save us loads o' trouble, 



An' not so much time engage. 



If de fishes in de ribber 



Would des hurry up an' bite, 

 We could ketch a mess lots quicker, 



An' git home befo' 'twas night ; 

 If de co'n would grow 'thout plantin', 



An' no hoein' need be done, 

 We'd have longer time fo' sleepin', 



Which would be most monst'ous fun. 



If de juicy watermillion 



Would grow big on de weeds, 

 An' when we went to eat 'em 



Dey wa'n't never any seeds, 

 What a worl' 'twould be to live in ! 



Weeds an' sich for million vines — 

 Gosh ! I guess 'twould make t'ings easier 



If dey wa'n't no pesky rinds. 



But t'ings ain't built right fo' changin', 



We can't fix 'em up a mite ; 

 An' if we don' go to kickin', 



Guess we'll git along all right. 

 Soon we'll cross de shinin' ribber, 



Soon we'll land on t'other shore; 

 Where we'll live in joy an' comfort, 



Sittin' 'round forever more. 



