"Your foot is wonderfully small!" says I, studying her shoe.
"Is it, Martin? Why 'tis a very ordinary foot, I think. And the pins are behind the buckles." Sure enough I found these silver buckles furnished each with a good stout pin well-suited to my design; so breaking them from the buckles, I had soon bent them into hooks and (with the back of my knife and a stone) I shaped each with a small ring a-top whereby I might secure them to my line; and though they had no barbs I thought they might catch any fish were I quick enough.
"How shall you do for a line, Martin?"
"I shall take the gut of one of our goats and worsted unravelled from my stocking."
"Will worsted be strong enough?"
"I shall make it fourfold."
"Nay, I will plait it into a line for you!"
"Good!" quoth I. And whipping off one of my stockings I unravelled therefrom sufficient of the worsted.
"But what shall you do for stockings?" says she, while this was a-doing.
"I will make me leggings of goat's-skin." So she took the worsted and now, sitting in a patch of radiant moonlight, fell to work, she weaving our fish-line with fingers very quick and dexterous, and I carving away at the pin for her hair.