Chapter 11

In for it, or Trying the middle.

A little fat man With rod, basket, and can, And tackle complete, Selected a seat On the branch of a wide-spreading tree, That stretch'd over a branch of the Lea: There he silently sat, Watching his float--like a tortoise-shell cat, That hath scented a mouse, In the nook of a room in a plentiful house. But alack! He hadn't sat long--when a crack At his back Made him turn round and pale-- And catch hold of his tail! But oh! 'twas in vain That he tried to regain The trunk of the treacherous tree; So he With a shake of his head Despairingly said-- "In for it,--ecod!" And away went his rod, And his best beaver hat, Untiling his roof! But he cared not for that, For it happened to be a superb water proof, Which not being himself, The poor elf! Felt a world of alarm As the arm Most gracefully bow'd to the stream, As if a respect it would show it, Tho' so much below it! No presence of mind he dissembled, But as the branch shook so he trembled, And the case was no longer a riddle Or joke; For the branch snapp'd and broke; And altho' The angler cried "Its no go!" He was presently--'trying the middle.'

SEYMOUR'S SKETCHES

A DAY'S SPORT

"Arena virumque cano."