Nor what name God Almighty calls them by
When their food’s ready and He sends them south: 
But our folk call them syle, and nought but syle,
And when they’re grown, why then we call them herring. 
I tell you, Sir, the water is as full
Of them as pastures be of blades of grass;
You’ll draw a score out in a landing net,
And none of them be longer than a pin.

“Syle! ay, indeed, we should be badly off,
I reckon, and so would God Almighty’s gulls,”
He grumbled on in his quaint piety,
“And all His other birds, if He should say
I will not drive my syle into the south;
The fisher folk may do without my syle,
And do without the shoals of fish it draws
To follow and feed on it.” 
                            This said, we made
Our peace with him by means of two small coins,
And down we ran and lay upon the reef,
And saw the swimming infants, emerald green,
In separate shoals, the scarcely turning ebb
Bringing them in; while sleek, and not intent
On chase, but taking that which came to hand,
The full-fed mackerel and the gurnet swam
Between; and settling on the polished sea,
A thousand snow-white gulls sat lovingly
In social rings, and twittered while they fed. 
The village dogs and ours, elate and brave,
Lay looking over, barking at the fish;
Fast, fast the silver creatures took the bait,
And when they heaved and floundered on the rock,
In beauteous misery, a sudden pat
Some shaggy pup would deal, then back away,
At distance eye them with sagacious doubt,
And shrink half frighted from the slippery things.

And so we lay from ebb-tide, till the flow
Rose high enough to drive us from the reef;
The fisher lads went home across the sand;
We climbed the cliff, and sat an hour or more,
Talking and looking down.  It was not talk
Of much significance, except for this—­
That we had more in common than of old,
For both were tired, I with overwork. 
He with inaction; I was glad at heart
To rest, and he was glad to have an ear
That he could grumble to, and half in jest
Rail at entails, deplore the fate of heirs,
And the misfortune of a good estate—­
Misfortune that was sure to pull him down,
Make him a dreamy, selfish, useless man: 
Indeed he felt himself deteriorate
Already.  Thereupon he sent down showers
Of clattering stones, to emphasize his words,
And leap the cliffs and tumble noisily
Into the seething wave.  And as for me,
I railed at him and at ingratitude,
While rifling of the basket he had slung
Across his shoulders; then with right good will
We fell to work, and feasted like the gods,
Like laborers, or like eager workhouse folk
At Yuletide dinner; or, to say the whole
At once, like tired, hungry, healthy youth,
Until the meal being o’er, the tilted flask
Drained of its latest drop, the meat and bread