He breakfasts early, and then has his
armchair brought out. He fishes till he is called
into dinner. After dinner he has his coffee
brought out to him on the canal bank—he
fishes till bed-time, and gets up in the
morning to fish again.

I scarcely deign to glance at the interior of
his fishing-basket, I feel convinced beforehand
that he has caught nothing. I doubt
if this obviously weak-minded old gentleman
ever catches anything except rheumatism.
Ten to one he uses the wrong sort of bait, or
hooks that are too large, or there is some
screw loose about his float. I am not a
judge of these matters, but I can see he is
not—or of any other matters. The money
with which he has purchased the lease or freehold
of the comfortable house on the canal bank
must have become his by inheritance. Such a
man could never have got on in business!

I approach him, and give him an affable
good day (for it is useless being hard upon
him—he can't help it); he returns my greeting
with desponding politeness; he is nervous
when spoken to; he is conscious of his
deplorable deficiency in powers of conversation.
I look at him more closely, and see
that he is a greater fool than I had anticipated.
I pretend not to see the empty basket, and
ask him in an airy tone if he has had good
sport. He shakes his head with the wan smile
of a martyr, as who should say,—

O! no indeed, sir! you are very kind,
but there is no such luck for a poor devil like
me! Pray don't suspect me capable of wishing
you to believe I ever catch fish.

I ask him what fish are to be found in the
canal. He shakes his head more despairingly
than before, and replies in a wretched tone of
voice:

"Nothing worth having. Only perch, and
roach—ichthyological genera, which, he
assures me, with something like a faint attempt
at bitterness, are " mauvais poissons! très
mauvais!"

"Any gudgeons?"

The smile of martyrdom becomes almost
waggish as he shakes his head a third time
in negation of so wild an hypothesis.
Gudgeons. O dear, no! Not for the likes of
him, at any rate!

I feel strongly inclined to say to him,

"Then, you helpless old donkey, what do
you mean by wasting even your worthless
time by sitting here, hour after hour, in a
pursuit that is neither amusing to yourself
nor serviceable to your fellow creatures?
Go in-doors and learn the flute, or build a
summer-house, or help your wife to get the
dinner ready, or to wash the children, or
something!

But I don't say it. The humanity of my
disposition combats the outbreak. I wish
him a cold good morning, and leave him
watching for the bite that will never come.

The next incident in order is the
wonderful adventure of the magpies, which
I will describe as it took place. I should
premise that I was brought up a country
boy, and am only just the least bit in the
world ashamed to confess that lingering
influences of some country superstitions still
cling to me. Amongst them I may name a
belief still current in the west of England (it
was there I learnt it), that to meet a single
magpie is unlucky, while to encounter a pair
of the same birds at once is quite the reverse.
This, I have been informed, rightly or
wrongly, by old sportsmen, is not without a
foundation in truth, to be explained on purely
natural grounds. They say that, in certain
unfavourable conditions of the atmosphere,
the male magpie leaves the nest alone in
search of food; whereas, assured by contrary
indications, he takes his wife with him.
Whether the magpie be really such a gallant
personage and model husband I leave it for
ornithologists to decide. I pass to my
adventure.

I saw two magpies in a field on my right
(the canal was now on my left, for I had
crossed a bridge at the junction). I felt my
spirits raised perceptibly. Of course I should
feel insulted if anybody charged me with
believing in so contemptible a superstition as
that of odd or even in the matter of magpies;
and, of course, I can reason away anything of
the kind as cleverly as most people. But I
suppose I am not the first to discover that
habit is stronger than reason; and I had been
taught at a very early age to believe that the
accidental meeting with two magpies was a
cheering and propitious omen.

Reason or no reason, I felt that I should
soon recover from my indigestion (chronic
inflammation of the gastric organs, as
Doctor Humm called it, at the rate of a guinea
per word,—all I ever got for my money). I
should be able to see my way to that last act
which my tragedy has been anxiously expecting
these four years. All my articles would
be approved of and inserted with rapidity. A
complimentary note from the Conductor of
this journal, announcing an important
augmentation per column—in consideration of
increased excellence—also loomed in the
distance. I should grow in wit, and worth, and
sense, unheeding critic's pen and that
unpleasant lack of power which has not proved
eternal to Mr. Tennyson, but which still
vexes myself and other servants of the public.
I should marry Julia, live to a good old age,
and die happy.

In this hopeful frame of mind, I walked on
with an elastic step towards a corner of the
road that I felt would discover beauties in
the landscape as yet undreamt of. I turned
the corner, and saw—standing in the middle
of the road, apparently waiting expressly for
my arrival:

              A SINGLE MAGPIE!

Perhaps he was one of two I had just
seen? I tried to hope so; but the attempt