COUNTING THE CATCH.
A Waltonian Fragment.
First Piscator, R-s-b-ry. Second Piscator, H-rc-rt.
First Piscator. Oh me, look you, master, a fish, a fish!
[Loses it.
Second Piscator. Aye, marry, Sir, that was a good fish; if I had had the luck to handle that rod, 'tis twenty to one he should not have broken my line as you suffered him; I would have held him, as you will learn to do hereafter; for I tell you, scholer, fishing is an art, or at least it is an art to catch fish. Verily that is the second brave Salmon you have lost in that pool!
First Piscator. Oh me, he has broke all; there's half a line and a good flie lost. I have no fortune, and that Peers' Pool is fatal fishing.
Second Piscator. Marry, brother, so it seemes—to you at least! Wel, wel, 'tis as small use crying over lost fish as spilt milk; the sunne hath sunk, the daye draweth anigh its ende; let us up tackle, and away!
First Piscator. Look also how it begins to rain, and by the clouds (if I mistake not) we shal presently have a smoaking showre. Truly it has been a long, rough day, and but poorish sport.
Second Piscator. Humph! I am fairly content with my catch, and had all been landed that have been hookt—but no matter! "Fishers must not rangle," as the Angler's song hath it.
First Piscator. Marry, no indeed! (Sings.)
O the brave fisher's life
It is the best of any!
He who'd mar it with mere strife
Sure must be a zany.
Other men,
Now and then,
Have their wars,
And their jars;
Our rule still
Is goodwill
As we gaily angle.
We have hooks about our hat,
We have rod and gaff too;
We can cast and we can chat,
Play our fish and chaff too.
None do here
Use to swear,
Oathes do fray
Fish away.
Our rule stil
Is goodwill.
Fishers must not rangle.
Second Piscator. Well sung, brother! Oh me, but even at our peaceful and vertuous pastime, there bee certain contentious and obstructive spoil-sports now. These abide not good old Anglers' Law, but bob and splash in other people's swims, fray away the fish they cannot catch, and desire not that experter anglers should, do muddy the stream and block its course, do net and poach and foul-hook in such noisy, conscienceless, unmannerly sort, that even honest angling becometh a bitter labour and aggravation.
First Piscator. Marry, yes brother! the Contemplative Man's Recreation is verily not what it once was. What would the sweet singer, Mr. William Basse, say to the busy B's of our day; Dubartas to B-rtl-y, or Mr. Thomas Barker, of pleasant report, to Tommy B-wl-s?
Second Piscator. Or worthy old Cotton to the cocky Macullum More?
First Piscator. Or the equally cocky Brummagem Boy?
Second Piscator. Or Dame Juliana Berners to B-lf-ur?
First Piscator. Or Sir Humphrey Davy to the haughty autocrat of H-tf-ld?
Second Piscator. Wel, wel, I hate contention and obstruction and all unsportsmanlike devices—when I am fishing.
First Piscator. And so say I. (Sings.)
The Peers are full of prejudice,
As hath too oft been tri'd;
High trolollie lollie loe,
high trolollie lee!
Second Piscator. The Commons full of opulence,
And both are full of pride.
Then care away
and fish along with me!
First Piscator. Marry, brother, and would that I could always do so. But doomed as we often are to angle in different swims, I may not always land the big fish that you hook, or even——
Second Piscator. Wel, honest scholer, say no more about it, but let us count and weigh our day's catch. By Jove, but that bigge one I landed after soe long a fight, and which you were so luckie as to gaff in that verie snaggy and swirly pool itselfe, maketh a right brave show on the grassie bank! And harkye, scholer, 'tis a far finer and rarer fish than manie woule suppose at first sight!
[Chuckleth inwardly.
First Piscator. You say true, master. And indeed the other fish, though of lesser bigness, bee by no manner of meanes to be sneezed at. Marry, Master, 'tis none so poor a day's sport after all—considering the weather and the much obstruction, eh?
Second Piscator. May bee not, may bee not! Stil, I could fain wish, honest scholer, you had safely landed those two bigge ones you lost in Peers' Pool, out of which awkward bit of water, indeed, I could fain desire we might keep all our fish!
COUNTING THE CATCH.
Rosebery. "NOT SUCH A BAD DAY AFTER ALL!"
Harcourt. "NO! WISH YOU'D LANDED THOSE OTHERS ALL THE SAME!!"