particularly, because it predisposes to pleasant contemplation, to equity of criticism in the consideration of most matters of life, and to no little self-benignancy.  No one knew this better (although Shakespeare himself was a poacher) than Christopher North, and where more fitly could the brightest pages of the Noctes Ambrosianae have been conceived or inspired than when their author was, rod in hand, on the banks of a brawling Highland trout-stream?

The fish had ceased to bite where we were, and at Mr. McGrath’s suggestion we dropped down the stream to where my friend and his darkey were.  His experience with the flies had been similar to mine, but he had too much regard for his fine fly-rod, he said, to use it for “slinging round a bait as big as a herring.”  He had taken it to pieces and put it away.  He was sitting with his elbows on his knees and a brier-root pipe in his mouth, content in every feature, a perfect picture of Placidity on a Boulder.

“Given up fishing?” I asked.

“Not much,” he replied:  “I’ve caught nine beauties.  Pete does all the work, and I catch the fish.”

Sure enough, he had Pete, who was one of the best fishermen on the river, fishing away as hard as he could.  Whenever Pete hooked a fish my friend would lay down his pipe and play the fish into the landing-net.  “It’s beastly sport,” he said:  “if I wasn’t so confoundedly lazy I couldn’t stand it at all.—­Hello, Pete! got him?”

“Yes, sah—­got him shuah;” and Pete handed him the rod as the line spun out.  We watched the short struggle, and started down stream, leaving him to his laziness just as he was settling back in the boat for a nap and telling Pete not to wake him up unless the next was a big one.

By noon we had thirty-two fish—­a very fair and satisfactory experience.  We were about to change our position when we were detained by a tremendous shouting from the other boat, about half a mile above us.

“What’s the matter with them, McGrath?” said I.

“Bedad, sorr!  I think it must be that bucket there in the bow,” he replied, pointing to the article, which contained our luncheon.

I was quite satisfied that it was, and there being a cool spring about forty feet above us on the bank on the Virginia side, we disembarked.  In the excitement of fishing I had not thought of luncheon, but now I found I had a startling appetite.  So had my friend and his assiduous darkey when they came in and reported twenty fish.

“Yes,” he said, “I know we ought to have a good many more, but Pete is so lazy.  It was all I could possibly do to catch those myself.”