One careless author, or too modest perhaps, whose name is not unknown to the initiated, Mr. W. B. Dunn, thought so meanly of his contribution, which was awarded by acclaim the prize of chairmanship, that he tossed it scornfully into the grate. A virtuous person snatched it slily up and treasured it for long in his museum-like creel, whence it was borrowed for the judgment of the public, to the fame or shame of the author.

TO THE NAIAD ARUNDINA.

I have wooed thee in the sunlight;
I have kissed thee in the wind;

When the air was grey with snowflakes,
When the skies were blue and kind,

Arundina !

O'er the scented bank of withies,
On the hot earth splashed with rain,
I have touched thy tender fingers,
And have seen thee smile again,

Like the sparkle on the water

Arundina !

Are those eyes so bright and dear.

There's none other of Earth's daughters

Has such lips, so red and clear,

Arundina !

I have watched thee move like Music,
Every line exactly right,
Flower of gold among the sedges,
Alder shadowed flower of light,

Arundina !

Ah! but very hard of winning!
I may woo thee, but with fear,
As a queen is wooed. I tremble
As I whisper in thine ear,

Arundina !

In thine awfulness and mercy,
Teach me how to win anew;
Hold thee tenderly and firmly,
Sing the lover's carol through,

Arundina !

It was my intention to surprise the author by marrying off his Naiad daughter to a suitable melody, and thus proclaiming him to be at once a father and a father-in-law, to end the Close Season of his merits: but Mr. Cecil Sharp, who was to have sent me a tune of his own begetting, considers that the gentle streams of Somerset are already so fertile in pastoral ditties that it would be absurd to go afield for melodies when we are so well populated with them already. So I offer instead one which the miller of Summerleas trolled to us, within earshot of his falling waters, one day when the fish were

less communicative. It is called "Mowing the Barley," and was harmonized by my friend, aforesaid, in his Hampstead Conservatoire.

A lawyer he went out one day
A for to take his pleasure:

And whom should he spy but some fair pretty girl,
So handsome and so clever ?

"Where are you going to, my pretty maid?
Where are you going, my Honey?"
"I'm going over the hills, kind sir," she said,
"To my father a mowing the barley.'

The lawyer he went out next day

A thinking for to view her,

But she gave him the slip and away she went
All over the hills to her father.

"Where are you going to," etc.

The lawyer he had a useful nag,

And soon he overtook her.

He caught her by the waist so small,
And on his horse he placed her.

Saying, "Hold up your cheeks, my fair pretty
maid,

Hold up your cheeks, my honey,
That I may give you a fair pretty kiss,
And a handful of gold and silver."

"O keep your gold and silver too, And take it where you're going, There's many a rogue and scamp like you Has brought poor girls to ruin.”

"Where are you going to," etc.

But now she is the lawyer's wife,
And the lawyer loves her dearly.

They live in the happy content of life,
And well in the place above her.

"Where are you going to," etc.

Whatever conclusion genteel persons may come to about Mr. W. B. Dunn's verse, his sentiments of affection for fishing are very real; he is great as a trout compeller and

salmon-queller. He has done much in foreign parts and outlying districts of the parish of Stepney, (i.e. the high seas of the world), yet he is as ready as any man alive to catch a tench or even a minnow or an

eel or a chub. "Coarse fishing," they call it, but no fishing is coarse unless it is made so by vulgar methods, vulgar measures, and vulgar associations. It is allied to all the other arts and the crafts of man's hand, brain and heart. If it were not for some foolish scorn, poured upon the fisher who takes the thing near to him and rejoices in it, whether that concerns coarse fish, or game fish, or any other kind, many peevish, bilious, invalidish persons would have the power and the means of growing brown, healthy, goodtempered, and even cheerful, by forgetting themselves and their worries over that delicious pastime. They would regret the right reasonable restrictions of the Close Season, with hearty unrepining regret, and welcome the newly-opened waters with an unaffected enthusiasm. Even the nostalgia of Babylon abates a little, and the too ready tears lose some of their salt, when the noble waters of our exile are explored, plumbed, or watched for the evening rise. We may