SPORT IN 
BY SUSAN, 
=~ The Hampshire Stour, though almost 
unknown to fame, is one of the prettiest 
little sporting rivers in the South of 
England. It is not so much that it ex- 
cels in any one way, but that its natural 
advantages are so various; it is so ver- 
satile, if I may say so, its talents are so 
many, its resources so great. It is like 
a charming friend, a companion with 
whom one is never dull, while the 
homely English beauty of its scenery, 
the grey water, with flashes of light, or 
of brown and black, as it travels by, 
deep and steady, 
With such a tide as, moving, seems asleep, 
Too full for sound or foam, 
winds its way slowly but surely to un- 
suspected depths in one’s affection. At 
Blackwater Ferry, where I most like to 
think of it, the river is fast nearing its 
journey’s end. It moves with dignity 
and ease, without the nervous haste of 
torrents less sure of themselves or of 
the appreciation of their little world. 
It has a haven alike for youth and age, 
for despair a refuge, and for the ‘‘un- 
quiet heart and brain”’ a medicine. 
The Valley of the Stour, along which 
the Danes of old fought their way to 
the rich city of Winchester, leaving 
traces of their passage in the many 
curious barrows scattered along its 
course, is fertilized by its periodic 

* Contrary to our rule, we have excerpted this article 
entire from the August issue 0 the Babington Maga- 
stne—English edition. Wedo so to show how fascinat- 
ing the practice of angling would become to Amer- 
ican women, if they could be led to follow it. The 
lady author of this interesting sketch is not only an 
observant, but practical angler, and handles her pen 
with the same grace and force with which she wields 
the fishing rod. If the ‘‘ New Woman,”’ in her feverish 
aim for man-like methods and attributes, will follow 
the example of the Countess of Malmesbury, we could 
almost forgive her bloomers, her yellow leggings and 
““scorcher ’’ form, when pedalling on the boulevards. 
COUNTESS OF 
THES STOUR. 
MALMESBURY. 
floods, when, like a miniature Nile, it 
brings the rich Dorsetshire soil to the 
poorer land farther down its path, as it 
coils through meadows renowned for 
being able to fatten a bullock without 
artificial food. For many a day in 
winter-time the ferry rope stops help- 
lessly and ridiculously in the middle of 
the stream, while, higher up, the ford 
at Pigshute would be impassable even 
to a man flying for his life, as Tyrrell 
was when he crossed it on his way to 
Poole. Let not the uninitiated imagine 
that these floods are unwholesome, for 
Christchurch is never so healthy, at 
least, so it declares, as when the Stour 
and Avon are ‘‘out;” but of an even- 
ing a deadly mist crawls up the valley 
and settles, white as snow, about three 
feet above the ground. This it is 
which brings disaster in its train, and 
not the cleansing and fertilizing waters 
from up the country. 
It is, as I have said, a small river. I 
may add that its enemies have been 
known to call it a sluggish one, and, 
like many a sluggish nature, it has a 
dangerous temper, while deadly under- 
currents lie hid beneath its placid sur- 
face. Almost every pool has claimed 
its human sacrifice, and bears a name 
tragic with the memory of one who 
perished there. 
But, sluggish though its flow may be, 
it is bright and clear, its clean gravelly 
bottom forming an unrivalled bed for 
perch, while pike are very different 
fish caught in its wholesome stream 
from what they can be in muddy lakes 
and back waters, hooked fresh from 
some unholy orgie upon rats or young 
ducks. Here they are excellent eat- 
