“Give her her luggage, then, at once,” cried the little man from the coach. The dark man held out his watch. A passenger on the top swore horribly, and threatened to get down, and Tom himself, as well as his horses, were on the fret. “There is no remedy,” sighed the fat man, as he resumed his old seat in the corner of the coach. The whip smacked--I leaned out for a parting look. There she stood nursing three bundles, each as big as a baby, and as we rolled off I heard her last words in this soliloquy: “How _ham_ I to _hever_ to get to York by the mail?” [Illustration: THE “SHORT STAGE,” A MILE END OMNIBUS.] [Illustration: GENTLE AND SIMPLE.] THE ANGLER’S FAREWELL. “Resign’d, I kissed the rod.” Well! I think it is time to put up! For it does not accord with my notions, Wrist, elbow, and chine, Stiff from throwing the line, To take nothing at last by my motions! I ground-bait my way as I go, And dip in at each watery dimple; But however I wish To inveigle the fish, To my _gentle_ they will not play _simple_! Though my float goes so swimmingly on, My bad luck never seems to diminish; It would seem that the Bream Must be scarce in the stream, And the _Chub_, tho’ it’s chubby, be _thinnish_! Not a Trout there can be in the place, Not a Grayling or Rud worth the mention, And although at my hook With _attention_ I look, I can ne’er see my hook with _a Tench on_! At a brandling once Gudgeon would gape, But they seem upon different terms now; Have they taken advice Of the “_Council of Nice_,” And rejected their “_Diet of Worms_,” now? In vain my live minnow I spin, Not a Pike seems to think it worth snatching; For the gut I have brought, I had better have bought A good _rope_ that was used to _Jack-ketching_! Not a nibble has ruffled my cork, It is vain in this river to search then; I may wait till it’s night, Without any bite, And at _roost-time_ have never a _Perch_ then! No Roach can I meet with--no Bleak, Save what in the air is so sharp now; Not a Dace have I got, And I fear it is not “Carpe diem,” a day for the Carp now! Oh! there is not a one pound prize To be got in this fresh-water lottery! What then can I deem Of so fishless a stream But that ’tis--like St. Mary’s--_Ottery_! For an Eel I have learned how to try, By a method of Walton’s own showing,-- But a fisherman feels Little prospect of Eels, In a path that’s devoted to towing! I have tried all the water for miles, Till I’m weary of dipping and casting; And hungry and faint,-- Let the Fancy just paint What it is _without Fish_, to be _Fasting_!