those clouds; how they hang! That's the greatest thing I have
seen to-day. There's nothing like it in old paintings, nothing like it
in foreign lands--unless when we were off the coast of Spain. That's a
true Mediterranean sky. I thought, as I have my living to get, and have
not eaten to-day, that I might go a-fishing. That's the true industry
for poets. It is the only trade I have learned. Come, let's along.

Hermit. I cannot resist. My brown bread will soon be gone. I will go
with you gladly soon, but I am just concluding a serious meditation. I
think that I am near the end of it. Leave me alone, then, for a while.
But that we may not be delayed, you shall be digging the bait meanwhile.
Angleworms are rarely to be met with in these parts, where the soil was
never fattened with manure; the race is nearly extinct. The sport of
digging the bait is nearly equal to that of catching the fish, when
one's appetite is not too keen; and this you may have all to yourself
today. I would advise you to set in the spade down yonder among the
ground-nuts, where you see the johnswort waving. I think that I may
warrant you one worm to every three sods you turn up, if you look well
in among the roots of the grass, as if you were weeding. Or, if you
choose to go farther, it will not be unwise, for I have found the
increase of fair bait to be very nearly as the squares of the distances.

Hermit alone. Let me see; where was I? Methinks I was nearly in this
frame of mind; the world lay about at this angle. Shall I go to heaven
or a-fishing? If I should soon bring this meditation to an end, would
another so sweet occasion be likely to offer? I was as near being
resolved into the essence of things as ever I was in my life. I fear
my thoughts will not come back to me. If it would do any good, I would
whistle for them. When they make us an offer, is it wise to say, We will
think of it? My thoughts have left no track, and I cannot find the path
again. What was it that I was thinking of? It was a very hazy day. I
will just try these three sentences of Confutsee; they may fetch that
state about again. I know not whether it was the dumps or a budding
ecstasy. Mem. There never is but one opportunity of a kind.

Poet. How now, Hermit, is it too soon? I have got just thirteen whole
ones, beside several which are imperfect or undersized; but they will
do for the smaller fry; they do not cover up the hook so much. Those
village worms are quite too lar