By Irving Browne.
CURRENT TOPICS.
ANGLING. — Vacation is upon us, and with it comes the constantly recurring question to every busy man, How shall I kill the time in which I ought to rest? This work-habit is a dreadful thing and it is hard to lay it aside even for a few days, and when one has to reassume it, it comes doubly hard. The Chairman has so long preached to a deaf people his favorite theory of recumbency in vacation that he does not need to dwell on it now. Perhaps he has said before — he finds that he has said almost all his good things before — that if one cannot or will not loaf lying down, the next best thing is to loaf sitting down, and a pleasing occupation for that time and attitude may be found in angling. None of your wading and walking for miles in wet clothes, but just a quiet, restful squatting on a log, or even a river wharf, with a few perch or bass for reward. In spite of Ben Franklin and Byron, many great men have been anglers. Daniel Webster rehearsed his second Hunker Hill oration while fishing near Marshfield, and it is said that he hauled up a fine fish while ex claiming : " Venerable men! you have come down to us from a former generation"; etc. The Chairman has recently bought the very latest edition of Walton's '•Compleat Angler," at the end of which is to be found an "Angler's Calendar," with the entry opposite March 27th: " Grover Cleveland, President, U. S. A., angler, born Ъу]™ Such is Fame! To go down to posterity as twice President and always an Angler! But the Chairman has ever been stronger in theory than in practice, and if there is a lazy and luxurious way of doing anything he has been pretty sure to find it out. So of Angling. Long since did he discover that there was a serious and unnecessary waste of nervous tissue in the usual mode of pursuit of this enticing pleasure, and substitute for it a com fortable and labor-saving method. Perhaps his readers will not object to learning HOW I GO A-FISHING. Tis sweet to sit in shady nook, Or wade in rapid crystal brook, Impervious in rubber boots, And wary of the slippery roots, To snare the swift evasive trout
Or eke the sauntering horn-pout; Or in the cold Canadian river To see the glorious salmon quiver, And them with tempting hook inveigle, Fit viand for a table regal; Or after an exciting bout To snatch the pike with sharpened snout; Or with some patient ass to row To troll for bass with motion slow. Oh! joy supreme when they appear Splashing above the water clear, And drawn reluctantly to land Lie gasping on the yellow sand! But sweeter far to read the books That treat of flies and worms and hooks, From Pickering's monumental page, (Late rivaled by the rare Dean Sage), And Major's elder issues neat. To Burnand's funny " Incompleat." I love their figures quaint and queer, Which on the inviting page appear, From those of good Dame Juliana, Who lifts a fish and cries hosanna. To those of Stothard, graceful Quaker, Of fishy art supremest maker, Whose fisherman, so dry and neat, Would never soil a parlor seat. I love them all, the books on angling, And far from cares and business jangling, Ensconced in cosy chimney corner, Like the traditional Jack Horner, I read from Walton down to Lang, And hum that song the Milkmaid sang. I get not tired nor wet nor cross, Nor suffer monetary loss — If fish are shy and will not bite, And shun the snare laid in their sight — In order home at night to bring A fraudulent, deceitful string, And thus escape the merry jeers Of heartless piscatory peers; Nor have to listen to the lying Of fishermen while fish are frying, Who boast of draughts miraculous Which prove too large a draught on us. I spare the rod, and rods don't break; Nor fish in sight the hook forsake; My lines ne'er snap like corset laces; My lines are fallen in pleasant places. And so in sage experience ripe, My fishery is but a type.
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