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!
* * * * *
SWORD AND PEN;
OR, THE RIVAL COMMANDERS.
(_EXTRACT FROM A MILITARY STORY OF THE NEAR FUTURE._)
Captain Pipeclay was perplexed when his Company refused to obey him.
He was considered a fairly good soldier, but not up to date. He might
know his drill, he might have read his _Queen's Regulations_, but he
had vague ideas of the power of the Press.
"You see, Sir," remonstrated his Colour-Sergeant; "if the rear rank
think they should stand fast when you give the command 'Open order!'
it is only a matter of opinion.
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