A PISCATORIAL.

I WONDER whether I am the only reader of the Crimson who has fallen easy prey to the specious eloquence of old Izaak Walton, that arch-humbug who "babbles of green fields" in such a naive and charming way. Last spring I picked up "The Complete Angler," and at once devoting to Hades the august historians and orators of antiquity, I wanted to be a fisher of trout, I longed for brooks to conquer, I wished to commune with Nature. I have communed now, and some of the greenness has departed from those fields and from me.

A visit to a New Hampshire village gave me the coveted opportunity, and I and my suspicions of this antidote for care were awakened one morning at five A. M. Remembering that, according to old Izaak, a rosy dairy-maid was to refresh me at noon with new milk, I put on my white flannel suit with some care and started off. My journey to the brook was a modern Anabasis, - ???, - "just three miles" did that brook keep ahead of me throughout the fifteen I walked. I learned this from passing countrymen, and argument and expostulation failed to shorten the distance one yard. "Just three miles" is the only unit of long measure used in New Hampshire.

Mile after mile I scrambled or crawled in the rain through bushes and briars without "getting a bite." I fell into the brook - three feet of muddy water - thereby spoiling my temper and my trousers. I drew out a damp cigarette to take refuge in smoke and philosophy; but "matches are made in Heaven," and I was no farther than purgatory, so I did not smoke just then. On the road I found a small snub-nosed boy with his basket full of fine trout. The little wretch had fished the brook just a hundred yards ahead of me. I descended to base flattery, and attempted corruption. Noble Young America (of course his name was Bill) declined to barter his fame and his fish for gold.

Sport I have heard this pastime called. Well, yes, it did furnish a good deal of sport to my host's pretty daughter. I now think that the taste for this amusement must be cultivated, and somebody else will have to cultivate mine considerably before I again allow it to make of me a walking clothes-line and unabridged dictionary of profanity combined. Simple Simon was a young Solomon when he chose his mother's pail for his fish-pond. The rest of my visit was more pleasantly devoted to the hammock, the pretty daughter, and the sketch of a new Inferno in which old Izaak Walton is to figure conspicuously.

VERT.