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
And eye confessed basilisky,
My love, my wisdom, my despair,
My more than whisky!

How oft with fat mephitic worm,
Or gentle, highly assafætid,
I've wooed with vain endearing term,
Till stiff and wetted.

I've flung thee flies, I've proffered spoons
Whole heart and gut and constant graces,
And lines, for nine revolving moons,

In pleasant places.

The reeds have whispered sweet respond,

What choirs of birds and winds sang carmens—
Their form of psalm-and wavelets fond
Lapped out the Amens!

Dear refuge for the half forgot,

Balm for the bruised and disappointed,

I live, with thee; to thee am not

Half disanointed.

Dear silent Muse! no chideress!

Nor too aloof for mortal fingers,
Take this my last, my sad caress,
While daylight lingers.

Three months we part, three months of pain,
Three months of unremittent fever.

Farewell! Three months, three months again
Sound like for ever.

These alders will be thick and green,
This sodden bank a lair of grasses,
And thou wilt be what thou hast been
As each month passes.

But I, grey-headed, dearest Muse,

Most homely, and most gentle Mistress!
Must leave thee soon, I cannot choose
But leave in distress.

Maybe old age will touch my arm,
Or doctors think me too rheumatic
To lose thy silvern girdle's charm
For joys ecstatic.

Then place my bones by placid Ile,

And lay the green-heart rod beside 'em.
I'll see thee on the Coachman smile
Or Gnat-I've tried '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!

FINIS.

Q

Index.