Discipula. Oh no, no! I can’t think of going yet? ‘Wise!’ It seems to me that it would be very foolish, while the lake contains so many more fish as good as any that we have already caught.
Piscator. You do not expect to take them all?
Discipula. All in this place; what should hinder?
Piscator. They will not bite for ever in the same place. They are a cunning animal, and get frightened.
Discipula. Then let us remove to another spot.
Piscator. That we might do, if there were time; but the sun is entirely hidden by clouds, and is near his going down. We shall presently have a thunder-storm. And then a stiff breeze from the south, which will waft us speedily toward our landing place; had we not better begin to think of leaving?
Discipula. Wait till I catch one fish more; I had a nibble just then.
Piscator. You should handle your rod more gently. The wind blows up fresher and fresher; it will be dark as pitch too, when night fairly comes on. Shall we not spread our sails, and speed merrily homeward?
Discipula. Well, as you will, master; though really I don’t see any occasion for all this hurry. Look at that fish! He rose almost to the surface after my hook, and yet wouldn’t take it. Oh, my poor fly! my poor bait! See it, master! All faded and worn and torn, no painting or patching can renew its comeliness! And there sticks out the hook, plain to view; a blind fish might see it! Oh, my poor fly, that couldn’t conceal the hook any longer! Mr. Piscator, lend me your knife, while I cut the bait from the line, rags, paint, iron and all, and throw it back into the water, thus. Now then, little fish! silly fish! come all of you, and see what has befooled you! What some of your tribe have swallowed because they thought it was good, and some because they were careless, and others because they were hungry and must have something! What many of ye have taken in, and more have nibbled at, and all have gazed at, and admired and longed for! Oh, rare sport have ye made me, foolish things! And longer would I have played with you, but the evening comes on, and I must bid you a happy farewell. So we are under way again, are we?
Piscator. We are again under way; and I have hope of reaching home before yonder cloud comes over us. And trust me, when it does come, it will bring more wind with it.