ription of a repast in the open air; and
that is where we are told how certain poor fishermen, coming in very
weary after a night of toil (and one of them very wet after swimming
ashore), found their Master standing on the bank of the lake waiting for
them. But it seems that he must have been busy in their behalf while he
was waiting; for there was a bright fire of coals burning on the shore,
and a goodly fish broiling thereon, and bread to eat with it. And when
the Master had asked them about their fishing, he said, "Come, now, and
get your breakfast." So they sat down around the fire, and with his own
hands he served them with the bread and the fish.

Of all the banquets that have ever been given upon earth, that is the
one in which I would rather have had a share.

But it is now time that we should return to our fishing. And let
us observe with gratitude that almost all of the pleasures that are
connected with this pursuit--its accompaniments and variations, which
run along with the tune and weave an embroidery of delight around
it--have an accidental and gratuitous quality about them. They are not
to be counted upon beforehand. They are like something that is thrown
into a purchase by a generous and open-handed dealer, to make us pleased
with our bargain and inclined to come back to the same shop.

If I knew, for example, before setting out for a day on the brook,
precisely what birds I should see, and what pretty little scenes in the
drama of woodland life were to be enacted before my eyes, the expedition
would lose more than half its charm. But, in fact, it is almost entirely
a matter of luck, and that is why it never grows tiresome.

The ornithologist knows pretty well where to look for the birds, and
he goes directly to the places where he can find them, and proceeds to
study them intelligently and systematically. But the angler who idles
down the stream takes them as they come, and all his observations have a
flavour of surprise in them.

He hears a familiar song,--one that he has often heard at a distance,
but never identified,--a loud, cheery, rustic cadence sounding from
a low pine-tree close beside him. He looks up carefully through the
needles and discovers a hooded warbler, a tiny, restless creature,
dressed in green and yellow, with two white feathers in its tail, like
the ends of a sash, and a glossy little black bonnet drawn closely about
its golden head. He will never forget that song again. It wi