nshiny life by English rivers.

Every little pitiful, coarse fish in the Avon was on the alert for
the flies, and gorging his wretched carcass with hundreds daily, the
gluttonous rogues! and every lover of the gentle craft was out to avenge
the poor May-flies.

So one fine Thursday afternoon, Tom, having borrowed East's new rod,
started by himself to the river. He fished for some time with small
success--not a fish would rise at him; but as he prowled along the bank,
he was presently aware of mighty ones feeding in a pool on the opposite
side, under the shade of a huge willow-tree. The stream was deep
here, but some fifty yards below was a shallow, for which he made off
hot-foot; and forgetting landlords, keepers, solemn prohibitions of the
Doctor, and everything else, pulled up his trousers, plunged across, and
in three minutes was creeping along on all fours towards the clump of
willows.

It isn't often that great chub, or any other coarse fish, are in earnest
about anything; but just then they were thoroughly bent on feeding, and
in half an hour Master Tom had deposited three thumping fellows at the
foot of the giant willow. As he was baiting for a fourth pounder, and
just going to throw in again, he became aware of a man coming up the
bank not one hundred yards off. Another look told him that it was the
under-keeper. Could he reach the shallow before him? No, not carrying
his rod. Nothing for it but the tree. So Tom laid his bones to it,
shinning up as fast as he could, and dragging up his rod after him. He
had just time to reach and crouch along upon a huge branch some ten feet
up, which stretched out over the river, when the keeper arrived at the
clump. Tom's heart beat fast as he came under the tree; two steps more
and he would have passed, when, as ill-luck would have it, the gleam on
the scales of the dead fish caught his eye, and he made a dead point
at the foot of the tree. He picked up the fish one by one; his eye and
touch told him that they had been alive and feeding within the hour. Tom
crouched lower along the branch, and heard the keeper beating the clump.
"If I could only get the rod hidden," thought he, and began gently
shifting it to get it alongside of him; "willowtrees don't throw out
straight hickory shoots twelve feet long, with no leaves, worse luck."
Alas! the keeper catches the rustle, and then a sight of the rod, and
then of Tom's hand and arm.

"Oh, be up ther', be 'ee?" says he, running