The Angler; Poem, in Ten Cantos with Proper Instructions in the Art, Rules to Choose Fishing Rods, Lines, Hooks, Floats, Baits, and to Make Artificial Flies Receipts for Pastes, &C., And, in Short, Every Article Relating to the Sport (Paperback)

Purchase of this book includes free trial access to www.million-books.com where you can read more than a million books for free. This is an OCR edition with typos. Excerpt from book: CANTO III. Angling for Trout.?Fickleness of the Seasons in Britain.? Season for Trout Fishing.?Rules for the Art of Artificial Fly Fishing.?A living Loach good Bait for Trout.?Rules for Bream, Cheven, Barbel and Tench Fishing.?Boyish Sports. ? Learning to Swim and Angle.?Groping for Trout. ? How performed. ? Nature's Kindness and Bounty.?Approach of Night. CANTO III. The seasons, surely, in these northern climes, Laugh at their image drawn by ancient rhymes; For Spring oft shivers in the British isle, But warms, in British song, with Baise's smile. E'en now the hawthorn, on the birth of May, Withholds her blossom, nor believes the day. And much I doubt if the yet chilling breeze, Crisping the lake, its spotted nation please; Thin, o'er the wave, the quiv'ring insects skim, And faintly dip their pinions in its brim. Winter its power has not yet resign'd; And yet, I fear, the weather is unkind. But there, an answer to that doubt receive? A gallant Trout!?behold it, and believe. The Trout, of delicate complexion, creeps, Sickly, deform'd, and squalid in the deeps; Lean and unwholesome, while descending snows Thicken the floods, and scourging Boreas blows: But when the vernal energy prevails O'er Winter's gelid breath?when western gales Curl the pure shallows, and his strength restore, His scales he brightens on the pebbly shore; His colours rise, and, in the rapid maze, Gay as the Spring, the lively wanton plays. Ye, Naiads, listen to the Fisher's strain, While thus I hymn the glories of your reign; Nor let me, wand'ring on the mossy shore, Behold your wat'ry pleasures, and deplore That, partial, you to other hooks resign The speckled triumphs you refase to mine ! What ails this mimic fly ? It springs no game? 'Tis not in season?there must lie the blam...