4 DAYS IN DOVE DALE 



I had walked five miles yesterday to Ash- 

 bourne to buy me a mackintosh. I had a fly- 

 book that Charles Cotton would have envied. 

 Every fly that ever flew over the waters of 

 " The Dove " is represented in that book. I 

 have a rod of the newest pattern, and a crack 

 reel, with patent self-acting machinery inside 

 of it. I have a line so strong that nothing 

 can break it, and yet so light and pliant that 

 it is supposed to fall upon the water like the 

 gentle zephyr. I have a landing net strong 

 enough to land a 3o-lb. salmon, and yet so 

 light as to add no perceptible weight to my 

 equipment. 



Thus equipped I started, commencing opera- 

 tions at the lower end of my three miles of 

 water the southern entrance to the Dale. I 

 had received verbal advice as to my method 

 of procedure from one of the most deadly 

 slayers of trout of modern days. I was told 

 to fish with a dry fly, and with a dry fly I 

 commenced. 



First, however, I examined the water with a 

 critical eye, to see what sort of fly the fish were 

 taking ; but after long and patient watching I 

 could discover neither fish nor fly, so I selected 



