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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
sit down and weep. There is cause and to spare for all the tears our glands can secrete, but let us watch a poor goose-quill twitch, and we shall wake again in our exile with some measure of gladness and hope to rebuild the walls of Jerusalem, which mere tears can never build.
FAREWELL TO FISHING.
Dear Scaly Muse, of weedy hair
How oft with fat mephitic worm,
I've flung thee flies, I've proffered spoons
In pleasant places.
The reeds have whispered sweet respond,
What choirs of birds and winds sang carmens—
Dear refuge for the half forgot,
Balm for the bruised and disappointed,
I live, with thee; to thee am not
Dear silent Muse! no chideress!
Nor too aloof for mortal fingers,
Three months we part, three months of pain,
Farewell! Three months, three months again
These alders will be thick and green,
But I, grey-headed, dearest Muse,
Most homely, and most gentle Mistress!
Maybe old age will touch my arm,
Then place my bones by placid Ile,
And lay the green-heart rod beside 'em.
Here in these weeds an hermit lies,
Who never pouched the coarse world's baiting. He laughed at paste, and spoons, and flies, But fished-while waiting!