that sat beside me, watching the flow of the river with his big, gold-rimmed eyes. 

 He was happy enough I was sure. There was a complacent satisfaction in every line of his fat, mottled body. And as I watched him my mind very naturally reverted to the "Pickwick Papers," and I repeated Mrs. Lyon-Hunter's deathless ode, beginning: 

   Can I see thee panting, dying, On a log, Expiring frog! 

 The big, green frog beside me listened with polite attention, but, on the whole, seemed strangely unmoved. Remembering the book in my pocket, I took it out; an old book, with battered leathern covers, which has passed through many hands since it was first published, more than two hundred years ago. 

 Indeed it is a wonderful, a most delightful book, known to the world as "The Compleat Angler," in which, to be sure, one may read something of fish and fishing, but more about old Izaac's lovable self, his sunny streams and shady pools, his buxom milkmaids, and sequestered inns, and his kindly animadversions upon men and things in general. Yet, as I say, he does occasionally speak of fish and fishing, and amongst other matters, concerning live frogs as bait, after describing the properest method of impaling one upon the hook, he ends with this injunction: 

 Treat it as though you loved it, that it may live the longer! 

 Up till now the frog had preserved his polite attentiveness in a manner highly creditable to his upbringing, but this proved too much; his over-charged feelings burst from him in a hoarse croak, and he disappeared into the river with a splash. 

 "Good-afternoon, Uncle Dick!" said a voice at my elbow, and looking round, I beheld Dorothy. Beneath one arm she carried the fluffy kitten, and in the other hand a scrap of paper. 

 "I promised Reginald to give you this," she continued, "and—oh yes—I was to say 'Hist!' first." 

 "Really! And why were you to say 'Hist'?" 

 "Oh, because all Indians always say 'Hist!' you know." 

 "To be sure they do," I answered; "but am I to understand that you are an Indian?" 

 "Not ta-day," replied Dorothy, shaking her head.  "Last time Reginald painted me Auntie was awfull' angry—it took her and nurse ages to get it all off—the war-paint, I mean—so I'm afraid I can't be an Indian again!" 

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