Part 11

Scotus.--Here is your hook, but, marry, my fingers tingle shrewdly with the nettles; also I marked the fish hasting up stream.

Anglus.--Nay, come, we shall even look for another.

Scotus.--Oh, Master, what is this? That which but now was dry ditch is presently salad bowl! Mark you how the green vegetables cover the waters! We shall have no sport.

Anglus.--Patience, Scholar; 'tis but Master Hedgely's men, cutting the weeds above. We may rest us some hour or two, till they go by. Or, perchance, for a matter of five shillings--

Scotus.--Nay, Master, this English angling is over costly. The rent of your ditch is high, the expenses of travel are burdensome. In crawling through your nettles and thistles I have scratched my face, and torn my raiment, and I will not pay the labourer to cease labouring in his industry.

Anglus.--Why then, pazienza, Scholar, or listen while I sing that sweet ditty of country contentment and an angler's life, writ by worthy Master Hackle long ago.

SONG

The Angler hath a jolly life Who by the rail runs down, And leaves his business and his wife, And all the din of town. The wind down stream is blowing straight, And nowhere cast can he; Then lo, he doth but sit and wait In kindly company.

Or else men turn the water off, Or folk be cutting weed, While he doth at misfortune scoff, From every trouble freed. Or else he waiteth for a rise, And ne'er a rise may see; For why, there are not any flies To bear him company.

Or, if he mark a rising trout, He straightway is caught up, And then he takes his flasket out, And drinks a rousing cup. Or if a trout he chance to hook, Weeded and broke is he, And then he finds a goodly book Instructive company.

What think you of my song, Scholar? 'Tis choicely musical. What, he is gone! A pest on those Northerners; they have no manners. Now, methinks I do remember a trout called George, a heavy fellow that lies ever under the arch of yonder bridge, where there is shelter from the wind. Ho for George!

SCENE II.--A BRIDGE

Enter ANGLUS

Anglus.--Now to creep like your Indian of Virginia on the prey, and angle for George. I'faith, he is a lusty trout; many a good Wickham have I lost in George.

Anglus.--There he is, I mark his big back fin. Now speed me, St. Peter, patron of all honest anglers! But first to dry my fly!

Anglus.--Oh, Mass! verily the angler had need of patience! Yonder boy hath spoiled my sport, and were it not that swearing frights the fish, I could find it in my heart to say an oath or twain. But, ha, here come the swallows, hawking low on the stream. Now, were but my Scholar here, I could impart to him much honest lore concerning the swallow, and other birds. But where she hawks, there fly must be, and fish will rise, and, look you, I do mark the trout feeding in yonder ford below the plank bridge.

Anglus.--Marry, that is a good trout under the burdock!

Anglus.--Now to knot a fresh cast. Marry, but they are feeding gaily! How kindly is the angler's life; he harmeth no fish that swims, yet the Spectator deemeth ours a cruel sport. Ah, good Master Townsend and learned Master Hutton, little ye wot of our country contents. So, I am ready again, and this Whitchurch dun will beguile yonder fish, I doubt not. Marry, how thick the flies come, and how the fish do revel in this merciful provender that Heaven sendeth! Verily I know not at which of these great fellows to make my essay.

Anglus.--Oh, mercy. I have hooked a young duck! Where is my landing- net? Nay, I have left it under yonder elm!

Anglus.--I have saved my fly, but lo, the trout have ceased to feed, and will rise no more till after sunset. Well, "a merry heart goes all the way!" And lo, here comes my Scholar. Ho, runaway, how have you sped?

Scotus.--Not ill. Here be my spoils, great ones; but how faint-hearted are your southern trout!

Anglus.--That fat fellow is a good three pounds by the scales. But, Scholar, with what fly caught ye these, and where?

Scotus.--Marry, Master, in a Mill-tail, where the water lagged not, but ran free as it doth in bonny Scotland; nor with no fly did I grip him, but with an artificial penk, or minnow. It was made by a handsome woman that had a fine hand, and wrought for Master Brown, of Aberdeen. The mould, or body of the minnow, is of parchment, methinks, and he hath fins of copper, all so curiously dissembled that it will beguile any sharp- sighted trout in a swift stream. Men call it a Phantom, Master; wilt thou not try my Phantom?

Anglus.--Begone, sirrah. I took thee for an angler, and thou art but a poaching knave!

Scotus.--Knave thyself! I will break thy head!

Anglus.--Softly, Scholar. Here comes good Master Hedgely, who will see fair play. Now lie there, my coat, and have at you!

Anglus.--Half-minute time! Time is up! Master Hedgely, in my dry fly box thou wilt find a little sponge for moistening of my casting lines. Wilt thou, of thy courtesy, throw it up for my Scholar? And now, Scholar, trust me, thy guard is too low. I hope thou bearest no malice.

Scotus.--None, Master. But, lo! I am an hungered; wilt thou taste my cates? Here I have bread slices and marmalade of Dundee. This fishing is marvellous hungry work.