DAYS IN DOVE DALE 6 1 



to carry it. That was the sort of thing I looked 

 for in fly-fishing. 



How that pretty, imaginary picture has been 

 dispelled by the reality ! how I have been 

 soaked and sodden, torn and scratched, stung 

 by nettles, pursued by wasps, bitten by venom- 

 ous insects, my fingers lacerated, and coat and 

 trousers torn by my own hooks ! how, weary 

 and footsore, with my angelic temper tried to the 

 utmost, I have returned to my hotel ! All these 

 things, friendly reader, thou already knowest. 



Recollections such as these, I am bound to 

 admit, have a tendency to lessen the ardour 

 which first inspired me. 



August 8th. Of Wednesday, the 6th, I have 

 nothing to record beyond the fact that the 

 major Piscator major I mean started alone 

 after luncheon up the Dale, and returned in 

 the evening with the finest basket that has 

 been taken in the low and bright waters of 

 "The Dove" for many a day viz. six and 

 a half brace of trout and grayling. I, Piscator 

 minor, took an evening stroll with my rod. 

 I hooked one fish and lost him, and then I 

 hooked my flies and lost them, and so returned 

 home calm and resigned to my unlucky fate, 



