d never without satisfactory results.

On arriving at the feeding ground of the stoot, cast your line well out
from the boat with a small howitzer. You wait anxiously for the first bite;
suddenly the hawser runs taut and there is a scream from the reel. But do
not be afraid of the reel screaming. In the circumstances it is a very good
sign. Plant the butt of your rod or pole firmly in the socket fitted for
the purpose in all motor-stooter boats and let the fish run for about a
parasang, and then strike and strike hard. The battle is now begun. Be
prepared for a series of tremendous rushes. You will see the stoot's huge
bulk dash out of the water; you will hear his voice, which resembles that
of the gorilla. This may go on for a long time: if the stoot be full-grown
it will take you quite an hour to bring him alongside the boat. Then comes
the problem of how to get him in--the hardest of all. The gaff, if possible
a good French _gaffe_, is indispensable, but the kilbin, a marine
life-preserver resembling a heavy niblick, is a handy weapon at this stage
of the conflict. Strike the fish on the head repeatedly--but never on the
tail--until he is paralysed and then grasp him firmly by the metatarsal fin
or, failing that, by the medulla oblongata, but keep your hands away from
his mouth. The teeth of the stoot are terribly sharp and pyorrhoea is not
unknown in this species.

Having got the fish on board you will need a spell of rest. An hour's
battle with a stoot is the most sudorific experience that I know, even more
so than my contests with red snappers at Mazatlan, in Mexico, or bat-fish
off the coasts of Florida. A complete change is necessary.

I have already spoken of the eating qualities of the stoot, which exceed
those of the tope. One is enough to provide sustenance for a small country
congregation. Cooked _en casserole_, or filleted, or grilled and stuffed
with Carlsbad plums, it is delicious.

And lastly it lends itself admirably to curing or preserving. Bottled stoot
is in its way as nutritious as Guinness's.

* * * * *

FLOWERS' NAMES.

LONDON PRIDE.

There was a haughty maiden
Who lived in London Town,
With gems her shoes were laden,
With gold her silken gown.
"In all the jewelled Indies,
In all the scented East,
Where the hot and spicy wind is,
No lady of the best
Can vie with me," said None-so-pretty
As down she walked through Lo