I don't know if J and I have the maturity level of 12-year-olds or what, but we cannot get through page 22 of "The Tale Of Mr. Jeremy Fisher" without erupting into hysterics: Mr. Jeremy stuck his pole into the mud and fastened his boat to it. Then he settled himself cross-legged and arranged his fishing tackle. He had the dearest little red float. His rod was a tough stalk of grass, his line was a fine white horse-hair, and he tied a little wriggling worm at the end.