THE DEVONSHIRE AVON 



then in a mood perhaps to distinguish between the 

 friendly and the hostile note in what he considered a 

 futile question, replied that he was enjoying himself 

 very much and had just killed a splendid fish over a 

 pound in weight. * You don't tell me that,' said the 

 Yorkshireman, bridling his choler, which, I fear from 

 frequent provocation, was not usually held in check at 

 these encounters. * We don't get many fish of that 

 size here ; let 's have a look at him.' So the pounder 

 was handed over for inspection by the happy, artless 

 curate to the guileful northerner, who at once ap- 

 propriated it, and having explained the situation 

 to the now dumbfounded angler, fired him off the 

 premises. The stalwart and uncompromising York- 

 shireman is now no more. His naturalised descend- 

 ants are at peace with the world and the association, 

 and are doubtless possessed of a beautiful Devonshire 

 accent. The last time I fished the Avon I trod the 

 once sacred enclosure in the full sense of moral right 

 and legal security. 



I used to fancy Woodleigh wood, or 'L^dleigh '«de 

 (with the Devon u of course), as the old natives had it, 

 as much as any stretch in this delightful river. It 

 clothes the high hill-sides with a fine tangle of varied 

 foliage and spreads its protecting fringes over the pools 

 and stickles for a long mile or so above Loddiswell. 

 But down in the river, if you do not mind timber, 

 there is here a prolonged treat of good things as you 

 push up the current beneath the overhanging boughs 

 of oak and hazel, of alder and mountain ash. Barbed 

 wire, to be sure, has added new terrors for the fisher- 

 man as it has for the fox-hunter. Once upon a time 



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