and entered the water. In his hand he carried a little spear. This he drove through the body of a flounder, which he threw upon the bank, and again, and yet again. Here was a worthy sport indeed. But we had no spears.
Necessity is the mother of purism. The trout-fisher, having no worm, imagines the artificial fly. The flounder-fisher, having no spear, imagines the landing-net. To catch a flounder in a landing-net is not so easy as it sounds. To begin with, your flounder is a very fearful and crafty fish. He is so fearful that he has made himself exactly like the sand and weed on which he lives. It is therefore very difficult to find him, unless one has exceptional eyesight like Master Peer Gynt. He is so crafty, that when you disturb him by treading about in the water he flits imperceptibly to a new spot, where, with a single shiver of his body—a feat of leger-de-corps in which he has no equal—he covers himself with sand. His little horrid eyes alone remain visible, and these he fastens upon you with a cold stare, full of malevolence.
The first step in puristic flounder-fishing must now be taken, the hypnotism of the quarry. The practitioner will fix his eyes on those of the flounder, and will approach him cautiously from behind. On reaching the flounder he will lower his landing-net until it is upright in the water,
