Part 2

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THE GENTLE CRAFT

(_By Our Own Trout_)

How gentle is the fisherman who sits beside the brook, And firmly puts the wriggling worm upon the pointed hook How pleasant for the hapless trout to find, from some strange cause, The fly conceals a something that makes havoc with its jaws!

Dame Juliana Berners wrote a book, in which she said The blessing of St. Peter rests upon the angler's head; She bid him not be "ravenous in taking game,"--I wish She'd ever asked if he deserved the blessings of the fish.

We were a happy family, as merry as could be, "Diversified with crimson stains," as Pope has said. Ah me! There came the cruel fisherman, his flies had deadly gleam, And not a soul remains but me to mourn within the stream.

What recked my little troutlets of the Palmers, Spinners, Duns, They headlong rushed, and then got caught, my innocent young sons! They're cooked--excuse an old trout's tear!--but hard it is to feel A monster's ta'en your family for matutinal meal.

The "honest angler," Walton, cried, and maundered night and day, But Byron puts the matter in a very different way; He said that Isaac should have hook fixed firmly "in his gullet," And oh! that I might be the trout that he suggests should pull it.

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AN ACUTE ANGLER.--The judicious Hooker.

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ANGLER'S MOTTO.--_Carpe diem._ A carp a day.

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THE ANGLE OF INCIDENCE.--When you're fishing, and tumble into the water.

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WALTON'S LIFE OF HOOKER.--Is this another name for Izaak Walton's _Complete Angler_?

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THE COMPLEAT DUFFER

I have fished in every way, Fished on every kind of day, But my basket still remains _in statu quo_, Not a stickleback will rise, Not a gudgeon as a prize To the quite amazing flies That I throw.

When I try the purling brook Many trout just have a look At my fly, or at the minnow that I spin, With fishy leer they squirm Off, and my belief is firm That I'd better use a worm On a pin.

Wherever I get leave, Still I fish from morn to eve, Though I never--hardly ever--rightly cast, With a body soaking wet, With a mind intent and set On success achieving yet At the last.

In my coat of wondrous tweed, And on every wandering weed, Hooks and flies unnamed invariably I fix. _Here_ I cannot land a fish-- I can only hope and wish I may creel a goodly dish In the Styx.

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_Q._ What is the difference between a dunce and an angler?

_A._ One hates his books and the other baits his hooks.

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ENTHUSIASTIC.--That indefatigable angler, Trollinson, never forgets his craft. Even in writing to you, he is sure to drop a line.

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AN ORIGINAL CORNER MAN.--_The Complete Angler._

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A BROTHER OF THE ANGLE.--A fellow mathematician.

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When is a fisherman like a Hindoo? When he loses his cast.

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A PUNT POEM

I'm a fisherman bold, And I don't mind the cold, Nor care about getting wet through! I don't mind the rain, Or rheumatical pain, Or even the tic-douloureux!

I'm a fisherman damp, Though I suffer from cramp, Let weather be foul or be fine, From morning till night Will I wait for a bite, And never see cause to repine!

I'm a fisherman glad, And I never am sad; I care not to shoot or to hunt; I would be quite content If my whole life were spent From morning to night in a punt!

I'm a fisherman brave, And I carol a stave In praise of the rod and the line! From the bank, or a boat, Will I gaze on my float-- What life is so happy as mine?

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THE GREATEST ANGLE OF ELEVATION.--Fishing off the top of Shakespeare's Cliff.

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BAIT AND WHITEBAIT

The "gentle" craft some people angling name; The "lobworm" might more truly call the same.

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THE LAY OF A SUCCESSFUL ANGLER

The dainty artificial fly Designed to catch the wily trout, Full loud _laudabunt alii_, And I will join, at times, no doubt, But yet my praise, without pretence, Is not from great experience.

I talk as well as anyone About the different kinds of tackle, I praise the Gnat, the Olive Dun, Discuss the worth of wings and hackle I've flies myself of each design, No book is better filled than mine.

But when I reach the river's side Alone, for none of these I wish, No victim to a foolish pride, My object is to capture fish; Let me confess, then, since you ask it-- A worm it is which fills my basket!

O brown, unlovely, wriggling worm, On which with scorn the haughty look, It is thy fascinating squirm Which brings the fattest trout to book, From thee unable to refrain, Though flies are cast for him in vain!

Deep gratitude to thee I feel, And then, perhaps, it's chiefly keen, When rival anglers view my creel, And straightway turn a jealous green; And, should they ask me--"What's your fly?" "A fancy pattern," I reply!

* * * * * [Illustration: Catching crabs and flounders in the Thames]

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ANECDOTE BY IZAAK WALTON.--One Piscator, whom I will not further name, had a certain acquaintance who, through the credit he had gotten by his wealth, worth, and wit, came to be made a magistrate. Whereupon Piscator goes me to the river and catches a fish, which having brought home, he sends to the new-made justice with a note, saying, "Inasmuch, sir, as you are now promoted to the condition of a beak, I do send you a perch."

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A SPORTIVE SONG

_A Sojourner in North Britain goes Salmon-fishing with a New Young Woman._

Far from the busy haunts of men, Mid hazel, heather, gorse, You are the Beauty of the glen, And I the Beast, of course. I fetch and carry at your wish, I wait your beck and nod, And yet your soul is with that fish, Your ardour in your rod.

He struggles hard, gives now a lunge, Like boxer in the ring, And now he executes a plunge That makes your tackle spring; And then again he quiet lies, As if in cunning thought Of how to lose this worst of flies That he so gladly caught.

Anon we see his silver back Rush madly up the stream, And then he takes another tack, An effort that's supreme; He tries to leap the rocky wall That environs the pool. How hot that rush! How low that fall! While you are calm and cool.

You utter not a word; your wrist Must surely be of steel; For, let your captive turn or twist, You never spend the reel. But with your eye fast fixed you stand-- Diana with a hook-- Determined that good grilse to land, And bring your fly to book.

Well done! He weakens! With the gaff I'm ready for the prey. And now you give a little laugh That means "He must give way!" "Look out!" you cry. I do look out, And then I lose my head. You've missed the fish without a doubt, But captured me instead!

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A POINT OF TRESPASS.--_Irate Owner of this side of water._ "Are you aware that you are trespassing in this water, young man?"

_Sharp Youth._ "But I'm not in the water, sir."

_Irate Owner_ (_more irate_). "Confound you, but you've just taken a fish out!"

_Sharp Youth._ "Yes, sir. The fish was trespassing!"

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_Enthusiastic Fisherman._ "What a bore! Just like my luck. No sooner have I got my tackle ready, and settled down to a book, than there comes a confounded bite!"

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THE BIRDS AND THE PHEASANT

(_After Longfellow_)

I shot a partridge in the air, It fell in turnips, "Don" knew where; For just as it dropped, with my right I stopped another in its flight.

I killed a pheasant in the copse, It fell amongst the fir-tree tops; For though a pheasant's flight is strong, A cock, hard hit, cannot fly long.

Soon, soon afterwards, in a pie, I found the birds in jelly lie; And the pheasant, at a fortnight's end, I found again in the _carte_ of a friend.

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ODE ON A DISTANT PARTRIDGE

(_By an Absent-minded Sportsman_)

Well, I'm blest! I'm pretty nearly Speechless, as I watch that bird, Saving that I mutter merely One concise, emphatic word-- What that is may be inferred!

English prose is, to my sorrow, Insufficient for the task. Would that I could freely borrow Expletives from Welsh or Basque-- One or two is all I ask!

Failing that, let so-called verses Serve to mitigate my grief Doggerel now and then disperses Agonies that need relief. (Missing birds of these is chief!)

Blankly tramping o'er the stubbles Is a bore, to put it mild; But, in short, to crown my troubles, _One_ mishap has made me riled, Driv'n me, like the coveys, wild.

For at last I flush a partridge, Ten yards rise, an easy pot! Click. Why, bless me, where's the cartridge? Hang it! there, I clean forgot Putting _them_ in ere I shot!

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THE FOOL WITH A GUN

(_To the Tune of the "Temptation of St. Anthony"_)

There are many fools that worry this world, Fools old, and fools who're young; Fools with fortunes, and fools without, Fools who dogmatise, fools who doubt, Fools who snigger, and fools who shout, Fools who never know what they're about, And fools all cheek and tongue; Fools who're gentlemen, fools who're cads, Fools who're greybeards, and fools who're lads; Fools with manias, fools with fads, Fools with cameras, fools with tracts, Fools who deny the stubbornest facts, Fools in theories, fools in acts; Fools who write Theosophist books, Fools who believe in Mahatmas and spooks; Fools who prophesy--races and Tophets-- Bigger fools who believe in prophets; Fools who quarrel, and fools who quack; In fact, there are all sorts of fools in the pack, Fools fat, thin, short, and tall; But of all sorts of fools, the fool with a gun (Who points it at someone--of course, "in fun"-- And fools around till chance murder is done) Is the worsest fool of them all!

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THE FIRST OF SEPTEMBER

The First of September, remember The day of supremest delight. Get ready the cartridge, the partridge Must fall in the stubble ere night.

The breechloader's ready, and steady The dog that we taught in old days; He's firm to his duty, a beauty That cares for but one person's praise.

He's careful in stubble, no trouble In turnips, he's keen as a man; But looks on acutely, and mutely Seems saying, "Shoot well, if you can!"

They flash from the cover--what lover Of sport does not thrill as they rise In feathered apparel? Each barrel Kills one, as the swift covey flies.

So on through the morning, still scorning All rest until midday has past, When lunch should be present, and pleasant That _al fresco_ breaking of fast.

One pipe, then be doing, pursuing The sport that no sport can eclipse; So homeward to dinner, a winner Of praise from the fairest of lips.

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