"Now when you've caught your chavender,
(Your chavender or chub)
You hie you to your pavender,
(Your pavender or pub),
And there you lie in lavender,
(Sweet lavender or lub)."

_Mr. Punch._


I went into the Plough Inn at Long Wittenham in mid-November to arrange
about sending some game to London. The landlord, after inquiring about our
shooting luck, went out and came back into the parlour, saying, "Now, sir,
will you look at my sport?" He carried on a tray two large chub weighing
about 2-1/2 lbs. each, which he had caught in the river just behind the
house. Their colour, olive and silver, scarlet, and grey, was simply
splendid. Laid on the table with one or two hares and cock pheasants and a
few brace of partridges they made a fine sporting group in still life--a
regular Thames Valley yield of fish and fowl. The landlord is a quiet
enthusiast in this Thames fishing. It is a pleasure to watch him at work,
whether being rowed down on a hot summer day by one of his men, and
casting a long line under the willows for chub, or hauling out big perch
or barbel. All his tackle is exquisitely kept, as well kept as the
yeoman's arrows and bow in the Canterbury Tales. His baits are arranged on
the hook as neatly as a good cook sends up a boned quail. He gets all his
worms from Nottingham. I notice that among anglers the man who gets his
worms from Nottingham is as much a connoisseur as the man who imported his
own wine used to be among dinner-givers.