into the water, we work it close to the bank. In an instant there is a swirl in the water, and a flash of green and gold-for jacks have now a bravely mottled flank—and as the jaws of Esox Lucius close upon the bait with a savage tug, our thin gut line is severed and flies back in the air in glistening coils, and the jack retires to his den-oh! with toothpicks gratis, while we repair our tackle and meditate upon the folly of too vast an ambition.

Yet a little lower down stream, and we come to a spot where it flows broad and shallow, with lanes of clear water between long quivering tresses of weeds, which are being slowly combed by the sunken leaves. and twigs which the current forces through them. In these lanes of water the roach are well on the feed, and every swim we get a bite. In two hours we have caught a goodly number, many of them half-a-pound in weight, and two of them over a pound each. Then they cease biting, and after trying in vain for some time, we look round to ascertain the cause. The eastern sky has grown pale and cold, and there is a thin line of dark, hard-edged cloud resting athwart it. We also become sensible of a keenness in the air, and we find that the wind has gone round to the east. The ripples already shimmering on the water tell us that a strong easterly wind is springing up, and so good-bye to our fishing.

We wander downward, just throwing in now and then for form's sake, and note the few things the autumn winds and rains have left us. Here is a late tuft of the yellow loose-strife; there the green blossoms of the ivy, which wreaths round that slanting pollard. Yonder a bed of tall nettles, covered with the fading yellow of the parasitic dodder, and here the greenish spikes of the mercury goose-foot, or Good King Henry. On this marsh the tall bulrushes bend their rich brown heads to the easterly air, and in this small, rush-fringed lagoon the floating duck-weed is scattered by the rising of a mallard.

On this mud-bank is the seal of an otter, and the track of his broad foot, together with the tail part of an eel off which he has breakfasted. Across the river a water-rat swims under the water, its compressed fur gleaming with silvery air-bubbles, and the ubiquitous waterhen flutters from the sedges.

All around are the glowing reds, and browns, and yellows of the sad, sweet autumn time. Leaves, fragrant in decay, flutter against us; starlings chatter in the reeds, and rise in a whirling cloud; and the rooks wheel and tumble in the grey sky above us.

In our hearts there is a restful peace, tinged with a pleasant melancholy, and so we walk on in full content, and come to a tiny, straw-thatched and moss-covered cottage, set in its little garden, close by the water's

edge. Here live an old couple, all by themselves, cheered only by the occasional visit of a child or grandchild. Old Morris was a farm labourer; then, as he grew old, a stone-breaker; and now he is too old and too rheumatic for that. It is a wonder how the old couple live. They have a plot of garden in which they grow a few potatoes, but their crop has been bad this year; and we know from one who sometimes befriends them that times are hard with them, and that they have lived for a week together on the fish caught by the old man, who was a deft angler in his youth. There he is now sitting on a stool by the water-side, and patiently waiting for a bite, with greater interest, we cannot but know, than we ever did; for his dinner depends upon the anxiety of the fish to take theirs. He is shivering with the cold, and looks anything but comfortable. On the grass, behind him, lies one small fish, and he is not likely now to catch any more. He does not see us, and he is as deaf as a post, so we turn out the contents of our basket to add to his one fish, reserving, however, a brace of the best for ourselves.

When old Morris discovers the addition to his store will he think, we wonder, that the miracle of the loaves and fishes has been repeated? and with what additional fervour will his good wife thank the Lord, when she finds half-a-crown in the belly of the biggest roach.

THE LINN.

VERY bright and pleasant are the pictures which cross the mental view of the Angler in his hours of rest. The hard-worked lawyer, politician, or merchant may throw himself back in his easy-chair after dinner, and escape from the cares of his business to wander in green fields and by flowing streams. To him there appear pictures so vivid that he smiles to himself as he thinks of the deep impression made upon his mind by the beauty he saw in those bygone days of sport, and free, wild wanderings. One picture may arise a hundred times, but it is none the less vivid for that, and none the less welcome. He can live over again that gloomy, windy day by the mountain tarn, set amid the rugged rocks, when the trout rose so freely, and the weight of his creel was almost more than he could bear on his homeward journey. Again he rambles through the feathery meadow-sweet and luxuriant grass, full of daisies and buttercups, by the side of a southern trout stream, and

sends the May-fly to yon eddy where the big trout lies. Once more he sees the salmon surging up stream at the end of seventy yards of line, and his frantic bound out of the brown water. Once again he lies in dreamy contentment by the side of a lilied pool, and watches his float slide away with the bite of a carp, or duck briskly with the dash of a perch.

And his helpmate, if she be spirit of his spirit, as well as bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh, will rejoice to see the wrinkles on his forehead grow smoother, the lines about his mouth relax from their sternness, and quiver with the play of a smile; and as his eyes close she will know that he has fallen asleep on a mossy bank in a woodland glade, and that the murmur of family talk is to him the pleasant sound of a rippling stream by which he has been wandering, and the glare of the gas is transformed into the flicker of the sunshine through the fluttering oak leaves, or the glitter and reflex from the intermingling wavelets.

She is glad to see this, and she is not jealous of his love that to him is second nature-for the angler's life and the angler's joys. She knows, too, cunning woman, that when he wakes from that refreshing dream and fancy, he will be amiably disposed to grant her her heart's desire, whether it be a new bonnet, or to take the children to the pantomime. Those for whom we chiefly write will know this is no fancy picture, and they will