FISH HAVE THEIR TIMES TO BITE.

Fish have their times to bite—

The bream in summer, and the trout in spring,

What time the hawthorn buds are white,

And streams are clear, and winds low-whispering.

The pike bite free when fall

The autumn leaves before the north-wind's breath,

And tench in June, but there are all—

There are all seasons for the gudgeon's death.

The trout his ambush keeps

Crafty and strong, in Pangbourne's eddying pools,

And patient still in Marlow deeps

For the shy barbel wait expectant fools.

Many the perch but small

That swim in Basildon, and Thames hath nought

Like Cookham's pike, but, oh! in all—

Yes, in all places are the gudgeon caught.

The old man angles still

For roach, and sits red-faced and fills his chair;

And perch, the boy expects to kill,

And roves and fishes here and fishes there.

The child but three feet tall

For the gay minnows and the bleak doth ply

His bending hazel, but by all—

Oh! by all hands the luckless gudgeon die.