breathing; at another, there was no sound at all. While standing uncertain, a third door opened, and out came Master Herbert, ready for the fray. Our first visit was to the larder, for it is a golden rule never to commence the day upon an empty stomach.

We were soon at the pool, on the surface of which thin wisps and veils of mist still slumbered. A heron stood in the marginal weeds, and was so incredulous of visitors so early, that he blinked and blinked his sleepy eyes at us in wonder, and only arose when we were within ten yards of him. Our hooks were baited with red worms, and our lines were dropped quietly into the water, supported by the tiniest floats. While we waited and watched for the first bite, we drew in huge draughts of the exhilarating morning air, with an additional zest, because we knew that the day would turn out scorching hot. All around was very quiet and still, and we noticed what a different nature characterises the stillness of the morning and that of the night. In both, the silence is equally profound away from the houses; but while at night the quiet is in accordance with the dying day and the darkness, in the morning it is in keen contrast with the quivering brightness, the intoxicating freshness, and the vigour which impels to action.

A float moves a little, then dips slightly, and then lies still, as if no fish had touched the bait.

E

Patience! he is at it still. Now it slides away with quickening pace, and then dips under water, towards a tree root. Strike, and hold him by the head! Give him the butt, for he is in dangerous proximity to the sunken branches. Now lead him into the rushes. He is landed, a fine carp of two pounds weight.

So we went on, now one and then the other hooking a fish, until ten fine carp lay on the bank. The mists arose from the water, the pearls vanished from the meadow-grasses, the insect hum grew louder, and the thrushes sang in the poplars, the sky brightened into its clearest blue-and the fish ceased biting. It was seven o'clock, and we had not done badly, yet, like Oliver, we asked for more and were admonished. The tiny sprats of carp commenced biting vigorously, and the frequent dips of our floats inspired us with delusive hopes. We had been fishing from the lane, but seeing that the bull was feeding quietly in a far corner of the field with his head turned away from us, we climbed over the gate and went on with our fishing. Presently we heard a tramp and a bellow, and lo! there was the bull close upon us and charging valiantly. One of us scrambled headlong over the gate, just in time to dispense with the bull's assistance, and the other, whose line was fast in a root at this inopportune moment, jumped waist-deep into the pool, and waded out at the other side. Our

fishing was at an end, and, laughing heartily, we gathered up our spoil and departed.

The Gipsy was still sleeping the sleep of the just, and when she was awakened she was very incredulous of our early rising, seeing that in the town we were always loath to get up in the mornings.

III. THE PORTRAIT OF AN ANGLER.

He is tall

Up and down the avenue of laurels, and under the shadow of the firs, where the blackbirds are chuckling and the doves are cooing, he walks. His hands are clasped behind him, and his head is bent in meditation while he awaits the summons to breakfast. and broad-shouldered, and he is gathering flesh, as becomes a man of his years. His broad, high forehead bespeaks intellect; his mouth and chin have the impress of firmness, but in his eye there shine the kindness of heart and liberality of judgment which have made him valued as a friend, and sought for as a counsellor through the country-side. As an angler he is one whom old Izaak would have loved, for with him angling is an idyllic pastime, a contemplative man's recreation. He has no

care for the more exciting branches of the art. He cares but little for the toils of salmon-fishing, or the excitement of landing the savage pike. More to his taste, is the quiet ramble by the side of a trout-stream, the seat in a punt, gudgeon-fishing, or a still, calm evening by a pool-side, angling for tench. He himself would tell you that he is an angler because of the opportunities it affords for pleasant and profitable

reverie.

It was very little matter whether he caught fish or not when he went a-fishing. "Atte the leest he hath his holsom walke, and merry at his ease, a swete ayre of the swete savoure of the meede floures that makyth him hungry; he heareth the melodyous harmony of fowles; he seeth the younge swaunes, heerons, ducks, cotes, and many other fowles and theyr brodes, whyche me seemyth better than all the noyse of hounds, the blaste of hornys, and the crye of fowlis that hunters, fawkeners, and fowlers can make. And if he take fysshe, surely there is then noe man merrier than he is in his

spyryte."

So the ramble in the country, its pleasant sights and sounds, the chance meeting with a friend of kindred tastes, and the conversations, rich and rare, into which those who know him well are irresistibly beguiled, make the days pass pleasantly and happily. There is a certain old-fashioned quaintness in his manner which he must

have caught from his favourite Spectator. His friends call him Sir Roger de Coverley, and the name is an apt description. Piscator says that "angling is somewhat like poetry-men are to be born so; I mean with inclinations to it, though both may be heightened by discourse and practice; but he that hopes to be a good angler must not only bring an inquiring and observing wit, but he must bring a large measure of hope and patience, and a love and propensity to the art itself; but having once got and practised it, then doubt not but angling will prove to be so pleasant that it will prove to be, like virtue, a reward to itself."

From what we have observed, we doubt that the angler whose portrait we are sketching was born to the art; we think he was rather led into its exercise by the delight he takes in its accessories; therefore he is, as a rule, not a successful angler. His pursuit of the fish themselves is not keen enough for that, and he is too often led aside by some extraneous object. His float may be carried down, and the fish may entangle his line in the weeds, the while he is unconsciously peering at the petals of a flower through a magnifying-glass. His rod may lie on the bank of a stream while the minnows are nibbling the feather off his flies, and he will be absorbed in the study of gravel sections or rock strata laid bare by the winter torrents. When he returns to angling consciousness, he will extricate his