flesh at a shilling a pound, as it might be salmon, but yet how cheap it is, for health and joy are given in. The smiles of nymphs, the flash of the water, and the nodding of the rushes, the uproarious appetite which laughs at the flourish of small sandwiches, all these are added to the bargain: such slavery is delicious to me. I wallow in it. Like the tame elephant, I would fain labour to enslave my yet free relatives.

Imprimis, the Pike fisher is-by a strange paradox-the real friend of the finny tribes. It is true he is inclined to sacrifice some, not without piteous unhappiness. But these some are the martyrs of their race, and could they choose, with fulness of knowledge, would assuredly rather die to save their kind from the maw which receives them. Alas! they cannot know, they only feel and become martyrs without the crown, that is if here and now is all their spell, which is by no means certain. The poor silvery thing, carrying an armour of hooks round and round, with that pathetic flap, until there dances before his frightened eyes a grim, malicious strenuous death, one wishes that he might just know how his death ends death for so many of his kind, before the great

jaws crash upon his sore back and release him. It would turn that inscrutable persecuting Providence upon the bank, into a very angel of light, to be loved and worshipped far above the unangling, peevish humanitarian. It pleases me to reflect that, when all is known, my Aunt Susan would receive the hearty malediction of the poor little gudgeon, whom she affects to pity and defend; while we, who use him so brutally as it seems, would be the first to be honoured, if his muteness ever developed into speech in some far-off world.

Still, for sheer deliciousness, unshaded by that pathetic problem of pain, spinning must take the first place. The moment when the weeds rot off, or are cut off and flooded away to the sea, is one of the golden moments of the year. Thence, until the fence months begin, and the fresh weeds beggar the spinner of his spoon baits, there is a world of delight to be had, like most other delights, at intervals and in patches. Spinning is not to be done every day. It requires wind, and a certain shade of water, not that of gin, not of bitter beer, but, if possible, of an outworn green, or a faded peacock blue.

Then it requires chosen

places, an open stretch, and a fairly skilful hand, a long line, and a steady nerve. Given all these requisites, there are few sports so fascinating. As usual, the poets are to be trusted and, that great genius Anon -him, I mean, who invented so much about us that is admirable-has, not unhappily, voiced the spirit of the thing, in lines not yet set to an equal helpmeet in music.

A SPINNING SONG.

O the hungry day in March

With the roses on the larch!

There are plum buds on the alder, and the black upon the ash.

With the river-water green

You are neither heard nor seen,

For the wind is netting meshes and the ripples gently splash.

How the rushes hiss and rattle,

And the little catkins prattle!

There are white horse foals a-prancing, just beyond at Bullimore,

Those great pipes of waterlilies

Seem to hear the stamping fillies,

They unsheathe their sweet green scimitars, and lift them up for war.

Down the wind with rod and traces

To the changeless changing places,

With a pocket full of spinners, and a little net and bag;

Just a whisper on the margent,

"My device is gules and argent.

Yes! and I will follow softly with the spinner that can wag."

So we cast afar and follow

Where the banks are clear and hollow—

Ha! already? see the rascal is curvetting to the snag. See, he shakes his angry head.

Now he's sulky. Now he's led,

Quick! the net below his tail and he tumbles in the bag.

So the dappled sunbeams quiver

In the woods below the river,

So the dark weed sways and stretches like the shadow on his back.

Who can dare him? or discern him

In his secret lair? or turn him

In the war dance of his hunger, when his rows of lancets crack?

There is not very much science, perhaps, in spinning for Pike, not more than an ordinary man can learn in a couple of seasons. The casting is the principal thing, and that comes only by practice. The rest is just a matter of outfit. You want a twelvefoot lissom rod, a good silken plaited line, and a large reel, a landing net, some gimp traces and spinners. It must be confessed that Pike do not fight very hard. A rush, a plunge, two or three leaps, especially if the

water is shallow, and the bully turns sulky and comes to the surface with a few flaps of protest, and then gives himself up to his fate. The labouring men, when they find a large fish in low water, simply hunt him about with sticks until he sulks, and then pass a noose over him, and hoist him out. But while he fights, say for a quarter-of-an-hour, he certainly fights to win and if a big jerk can set him free, he will try to obtain it.

When there are weeds about, from June till October, and on other days when there is no wind and the water is clear, trolling, or live baiting, is one's substitute for the happier game. The latter is more successful, but one has to play a mulish part, to carry bulky fardels, and to be impassive and even distant. The rod is best laid upon the bank, and the fisherman retires out of sight. The poor little victim dace, or, failing dace, guddeon or roach, drags round the large float until it disappears with a quiet, but determined plunge. Then you either wait restrainedly, or strike quickly according as your tackle is snap or gorge. Impatient moderns prefer the former, but your old fashioned rustic-bred angler the latter. Each method has a charm of its own.