Another slur upon the noble sport of chub fishing is the fact of his
not being worth eating--a fact which, in the true sportsman's eyes,
will go for nothing. But though the man who can buy fresh soles and
salmon may despise chub, there are those who do not. True, you may
make a most accurate imitation of him by taking one of Palmer's
patent candles, wick and all, stuffing it with needles and split
bristles, and then stewing the same in ditch-water. Nevertheless,
strange to say, the agricultural stomach digests chub; and if, after
having filled your creel, or three creels (as you may too often),
with them, you will distribute them on your way home to all the old
women you meet, you will make many poor souls happy, after having
saved the lives of many trout.
But here we come to a strip of thick cover, part of our Squire's home
preserves, which it is impossible to fish, so closely do the boughs
cover the water. We will walk on through it towards the hall, and
there get--what we begin sorely to need--something to eat. It will
be of little use fishing for some time to come; for these hot hours
of the afternoon, from three till six, are generally the 'deadest
time' of the whole day.
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