n afternoon and evening, and it
seems scarcely credible that, only an hour or two ago, I was out on the
river in an open boat, fishing. It was a glorious sunny afternoon when
we pushed off; the great hills around were at their greenest; and the
only reminder vouchsafed to us that to-morrow is midwinter's day was
the glitter of snow away on the top of the mountain. The water around
us, reflecting the cloudless sky above, was a sea of sapphire, out of
which our oars seemed to beat up pearls and silver. Arrived at our
favourite fishing grounds, we lay quietly at anchor, and for a while
the sport was excellent. But, later on, things quietened down. The
fish forsook us, or became too dainty for our blandishments. The sun
went down over the massive ridges. A hint of evening brooded over us.
The blue died out of the water, and the greenness vanished from the
hills. Everything was grey and cold. As though to match the gloom
around us, we ourselves grew silent. Conversation languished, and
laughter was dead. We turned up the collars of our coats, and grimly
bent over our lines. But the cod and the perch were proof against all
our cajolery, and would not be enticed. At length my hands grew so
cold and numb that I could scarcely feel the line. My enthusiasm sank
with the temperature, and I suggested, not without trepidation, that we
should give it up. My companions assented to the abstract proposition;
but, with that wistful half-expectancy so characteristic of anglers,
did not at once commence to wind up their lines. I was, therefore,
just on the point of setting them an example when one of them exclaimed
excitedly, 'Wait a second; I had _such a lovely bite_!' That was all;
but it gave us a fresh lease of life. For half an hour we forgot the
hardening cold and the deepening gloom, and chatted again as merrily as
when we baited our hooks for the first time. It was a bite; that was
all. But, oh, the thrill of a bite when patience is flagging and
endurance ebbing out!

It is because of a certain cynical tendency to deride the value of a
bite that I have decided to spend the evening with my pen. 'A bite!'
says somebody, with a fine guffaw. 'And what on earth is the good of a
bite, I should like to know? A bite is neither fish, flesh, fowl, nor
good red herring! A bite is of no use for breakfast, dinner, tea, or
supper! Bites can neither be fried nor boiled, measured nor weighed.
A bite, indeed!'--and once mor