her troth to me.

He suggested Floss for sea, because of George Eliot's Mill on the
Floss, and, you would hardly believe it, did I not vouch for its truth,
she actually rhymed Floss and me. It was excruciating."

"I can beat that, Wilks. I was out in the country on business, and
stopped at our client's house, a farmer he was. The man that led the
music in his church, an old Yank, who drawled out his words in singing,
like sweeowtest for sweetest, was teaching the farmer's daughter to play
the organ. He offered to sing for my benefit, in an informal way, one of
my national melodies; and he did. It was 'The harp that once through
Tara's halls,' and--O Wilks--he sang it to a tune called Ortonville, an
awful whining, jog-trot, Methodistical thing with a repeat. My client
asked me privately what I thought of it, and I told him that, if Mr.
Sprague had said he was going to sing it in an infernal way, he would
have been nearer the truth."

"Your language is strong, my friend. The late Mr. William Basse, as you
designate him, would not have condescended to the use of such terms."

"Faith, the language isn't made that's too bad for Ortonville. You've
got a big one this time, Wilks, my boy--play him!"

The dominie succeeded in bringing in his fish, a big fellow, between a
pound and a-half and two pounds in weight, on which he gazed with
delight, as the lawyer unhooked it, and deposited it, with a smart rap
on the head, at the bottom of the canoe.

"Is that a trout, Corry?" the Dominie asked with eager pride.

"No; it's not a brook or speckled trout, for it has no speckles, and
it's not a relative of the late William Basse, for it isn't deep enough
in the body, nor a perch, for it's too big and has no stripes. It's
either a salmon trout or a pickerel, Wilks."

"Is there not some fable about the latter fish?"

"Yes; old Isaac says that it's produced from the pickerel weed, the
Pontederia, that should be coming into flower about now. I haven't seen
any yet. There's another, for me this time--ugh, it's only a perch."

The schoolmaster, emboldened by success, declared that he was too
cramped, and, gathering his legs together, while he held on to the
sides of the dug-out, succeeded in grasping the top of the deep-sea
mooring. Then, with the other hand, he raised the board, and transferred
it to the gunwale. Sitting upon the improvised seat with his back to the
bow, he expressed satisfaction at facing his companion, for one th