his rod together, and displayed his nets, laying his basket, gaping for
the finny prey, on the margin of the placid waters. With eager gaze he
watched his newly-varnished and many-coloured float, expecting
every-moment to behold it sink, the inviting bait being prepared
'secundum artem.' He had certainly time for reflection, for his float
had been cast at least an hour, and still remained stationary; from which
he wisely augured that he was most certainly neither fishing in a running
stream nor in troubled waters.

Presently a ragged urchin came sauntering along, and very leisurely
seated himself upon a bank near the devoted angler. Curiosity is natural
to youth, thought Foozle--how I shall make the lad wonder when I pull out
a wriggling fish!

But still another weary hour passed, and the old gentleman's arms and
loins began to ache from the novel and constrained posture in which he
stood. He grew nervous and uneasy at the want of sport; and thinking
that perhaps the little fellow was acquainted with the locality, he
turned towards him, saying, in the blandest but still most indifferent
tone he could assume, lest he should compromise his dignity by exposing
his ignorance--

"I say, Jack, are there any fish in this pond?"

"There may be, sir," replied the boy, pulling his ragged forelock most
deferentially, for Old Foozle had an awful churchwarden-like appearance;
"there may be, but I should think they were weary small, 'cause there vos
no vater in this here pond afore that there rain yesterday."

The sallow cheeks of the old angler were tinged with a ruddy glow, called