On arriving at the feeding ground of the stoot, cast your line well out from the boat with a small howitzer.  You wait anxiously for the first bite; suddenly the hawser runs taut and there is a scream from the reel.  But do not be afraid of the reel screaming.  In the circumstances it is a very good sign.  Plant the butt of your rod or pole firmly in the socket fitted for the purpose in all motor-stooter boats and let the fish run for about a parasang, and then strike and strike hard.  The battle is now begun.  Be prepared for a series of tremendous rushes.  You will see the stoot’s huge bulk dash out of the water; you will hear his voice, which resembles that of the gorilla.  This may go on for a long time:  if the stoot be full-grown it will take you quite an hour to bring him alongside the boat.  Then comes the problem of how to get him in—­the hardest of all.  The gaff, if possible a good French gaffe, is indispensable, but the kilbin, a marine life-preserver resembling a heavy niblick, is a handy weapon at this stage of the conflict.  Strike the fish on the head repeatedly—­but never on the tail—­until he is paralysed and then grasp him firmly by the metatarsal fin or, failing that, by the medulla oblongata, but keep your hands away from his mouth.  The teeth of the stoot are terribly sharp and pyorrhoea is not unknown in this species.

Having got the fish on board you will need a spell of rest.  An hour’s battle with a stoot is the most sudorific experience that I know, even more so than my contests with red snappers at Mazatlan, in Mexico, or bat-fish off the coasts of Florida.  A complete change is necessary.

I have already spoken of the eating qualities of the stoot, which exceed those of the tope.  One is enough to provide sustenance for a small country congregation.  Cooked en casserole, or filleted, or grilled and stuffed with Carlsbad plums, it is delicious.

And lastly it lends itself admirably to curing or preserving.  Bottled stoot is in its way as nutritious as Guinness’s.

* * * * *

FLOWERS’ NAMES.

          LONDON PRIDE.

  There was a haughty maiden
    Who lived in London Town,
  With gems her shoes were laden,
    With gold her silken gown. 
  “In all the jewelled Indies,
    In all the scented East,
  Where the hot and spicy wind is,
    No lady of the best
  Can vie with me,” said None-so-pretty
  As down she walked through London City.

  “Our walls stand grey and stately;
    Our city gates stand high;
  Our lords spend wide and greatly;
    Our dames go sweeping by;
  Our heavy-laden barges
    Float down the quiet flood
  Where on the pleasant marges
    Gay flowers bloom and bud. 
  Oh, there’s no place like London City,
  And I’m its crown,” said None-so-pretty.

  The fairies heard her boasting,
    And that they cannot bear;
  So off they went a-posting
    For charms to bind her there. 
  They wove their spells around her,
    The maiden pink and white;
  With magic fast they bound her,
    And flowers sprang to sight
  All white and pink, called None-so-pretty,
  The Pride of dusty London City.