It was morning. It was ten o'clock. It was May. We were all stowed away in
the Bishop's trap with his son, Harry, controlling the fat pony, whose
small fore-hoof pawed impatiently on the asphalt. Angel and I had donned
old jerseys and The Seraph a clean holland pinafore, against which he
pressed an empty treacle tin where a solitary worm reared an anxious head
against the encircling gloom.
"I've got a worm," he gasped, gleefully, as the pony, released at last,
jerked us almost off our seats. "He's nice an' fat, an' he's quite clean,
for I've washed him fwee times. He's as tame as anyfing. He's wather a dear
ole worm, an' it seems a shame to wun a hook frew him."
"Child, it shall not be done," consoled the Bishop. "Keep your worm, and,
when we get to the river-bank, we'll introduce him to the country worms,
and maybe he'll like them so well he'll marry and settle down there for the
rest of his days."
"If he could see a lady-worm he'd like," stipulated The Seraph.
"He'd have a wide choice," said the Bishop. "The country is full of worms,
some of them charming, I daresay."
"And, I say," chuckled Angel, "you could perform the ceremony--if only we
knew their names."
"This is Charles Augustus," said The Seraph with dignity.
"She'd likely be Ernestine," I put in.
"Very well," said the Bishop. "It should proceed thus: 'I, Charles
Augustus, take thee, Ernestine, to have and to hold'--and I do wish, Harry,
that you'd have a care and hold Merrylegs in. He's almost taking our breath
away. Such a speed is undignified, and bad for the digestion."
It was true that the fat pony was in amazing spirits that morning. Shops
and houses were passed with exhilarating speed. To us little fellows, who
always walked with our governess, when we went abroad, it was intoxicating.
Soon the town was left behind and we were bowling along a country road past
a field where boys were flying a kite, its long tail making sinuous curves
against the turquoise sky. The air was sweet with the fresh May showers;
and the swift roll of wheels was an inspiring accompaniment to our chatter.
Further along lay a tranquil pond in a common, its surface stirred by a
tiny boat with white sails. An old, white-bearded man in a smock frock was
teaching his grandsons to sail the boat. It must be jolly, we thought, to
have a nice old grandfather to play with one.
At last we passed a vine-embowered inn, set among apple trees in bloom. It
was "The Sleepy Angler" and the Bishop said that the river curved just
beyond it.
We gave a shout of joy as we caught the glint of it; a shout that might
well have been a warning to any lurking trout. Angel and I scarcely waited
for the pony to draw up beneath the trees before we tumbled out of the
trap; and the Bishop, grasping the eager Seraph by the wrist, swung him to
the ground after us.
We felt very small and light, and almost fairy-like, as we ran here and
thither over the lush grass, studded with spring flowers. Our sensitive
nostrils were greeted by enticing new odors that seemed to be pressed from
the springy sod of our scampering feet. The Seraph still clutched the
treacle tin, and Charles Augustus must have had a bad quarter hour of it.
The stream, which was a sharp, clear one, sped through flowery meadows,
where geese were grazing as soberly as cows. An old orchard enfolded it, at
last, scattering pink petals on its flowing cloud-flecked surface, and
drawing new life from its freshness.
Harry made the pony comfortable and lit his pipe, and the Bishop got ready
his tackle, while the three of us clustered about him, filled with wonder
and delight to see the book of many coloured flies, and all the intricacies
of preparing the rod and bait. Angel and I were equipped with proper rods
baited with greenish May-flies, and The Seraph got a willow wand and line
at the end of which dangled an active grasshopper.
"You know," said the Bishop, when we had cast our flies, "if I were a
whole-hearted angler, I should not have brought three such restless spirits
on this expedition but truly I am--
'No fisher,
But a well-wisher
To the game!'
So, now that you are here, suppose I give you a lesson in manipulating your
tackling. If you proceed as you have begun, there will very soon not be so
much as a minnow within a mile of us. Easy now, Angel; just move your fly
gently on top of the water so that his bright wings may attract the eye of
the most wanton trout. Easy, John--by the lord, I've caught a Greyling! And
come and sniff him, and you'll find he smells of water-thyme."
How aptly we took to this sort of teaching, given in the fresh outdoors,
the air pleasant with honeysuckle, and a lark carolling high above us! We
could scarcely restrain our shouts when Angel's first trout was landed with
the aid of a net, and lay golden and white as a daffodil on the grass. So
absorbed were we that no one gave any heed to The Seraph, stationed farther
down stream, till a roar of rage discovered him, dancing empty-handed on
the bank, his rod sailing smartly down the stream, leaving only a wake of
tiny ripples.
"It was a 'normous lusty trout," he wailed, "as big as a whale, an' he
swallowed my grasshopper, an' hook, an' gave me _such_ a look! And I'd
pwomised him to Mary Ellen for her tea!"
"We may as well give up for a while," said the Bishop, mildly, "and have
some lunch. Bring The Seraph to me, boys, and I shall comfort him, whilst
you unpack the hamper."
What hearty, wholesome appetites we brought to the cold beef and radishes!
And how much more satisfying such fare than the milky messes served to us
by Mrs. Handsomebody! Harry had buried a bottle of ale under the cool sod,
and we had tastes of that to wash our victuals down. Even Charles Augustus
had a little of it poured into his cell to comfort him.
When we were satisfied, the Bishop retired to the shade of a hedge with his
pipe; The Seraph wandered off by himself to hunt for birds' nests; and
Angel and I took fresh flies and tried our luck anew. But the sun was high;
the south breeze was fallen; and the trout had sought their farthest
chambers in the pool.
Angel soon tired when sport flagged.
"Let's go find the kid," he said, throwing down the rod, "he'll be getting
himself drowned if we don't keep an eye on him. I'll race you to that
nearest apple tree!"
With nimble legs, and swiftly beating hearts, we scampered over the smooth
turf, and I threw a triumphant look over my shoulder at him, as I hurled
myself upon the mossy bole of the old tree. Then I saw that Angel had
stopped stock still and was staring open-mouthed beyond me. I turned. Then,
I, too, stared open-mouthed. Trust The Seraph for falling on his feet! What
though his rod had been filched--here he was, without a moment's loss,
plunged in a new adventure!