In the hope, however, that some useful knowledge may be conveyed to the minds of our readers through the medium of the present work, we intend to devote a portion of our space to a brief introduction regarding the organic structure and physiology of fishes. We know, from experience, that time may hang heavy even on the hands of anglers, who are seldom either feeble or faint-hearted men. We know that spring (all genial though it be in poet’s fancy) has yet its frequent flaky snows on mead and mountain, its spiky ice along the crystal stream;—that summer in its sunlit splendor suffers its long-enduring droughts, its sudden _speats_, and fearful overflows;—that melancholy autumn, in spite of all its mild effulgence, is not seldom violent, and perturbed “By lightning, by fierce winds, by trampling waves;” —and that each of these conditions of time and space is adverse to the angler’s art. Even with every sweet advantage yielded by cheerful spring, by glorious summer, by refulgent autumn (we now seek to soothe the seasons by more endearing terms), daylight does not last for ever, and so the angler cannot always ply his trade. Of night-fishing we seldom think—except in murmuring dreams of rheumatism and water-rats—and eye-sight often fails, “When comes still evening on, and twilight grey Has in her sober livery all things clad.” Moreover, it is chiefly the home-hunting angler, he whose “lines have fallen in pleasant places,” who dwells habitually by river side, or sees “beneath the opening eyelids of morn” some broad lake gladdening his daily gaze—in moonlight sparkling with bright columnar fire within its cincturing trees, or greener margins—he, or some happy friend who shares his dwelling, alone can cast his angles in the night. No man, who “long in populous city pent,” wanders for a time in lonesome gladness by the side of glittering waters, can wait with patience for a summer night, however beautiful may be the countless stars— “That sparkle in the firmament of June.” Whether he will or no, he must wend his way to grassy bank, or pebbly shore, or alder-skirted brink, and if there he fishes all the live-long day, he cannot fish at night, at least he ought not so to do. He who spareth not the rod hateth himself, and produces a degree of fatigue and satiety which ought never to mingle with his healthful toil. Suppose, then, that the gentle reader does not fish at night, that he dines heartily (_sero sed serio_), imbibes moderately, takes tea sedately, and has still an hour to spare before a light supper—let him read this article, and we promise to be as little prolix as we can. [Illustration] THE PERCH.