56 TROUT FISHING 



never really take a fly again till a day nearly at the 

 end of July, when I overcame his caution by a trick 

 which was probably very wrong. I put on a fly 

 with a long straggling hackle and placed it before 

 him. He came, looked, mocked, and went away. 

 I withdrew the fly and waited for some minutes till 

 he returned on his beat. Then I cast it in front of 

 him and as he came to look again twitched the point 

 of the rod ever so slightly. The fly waggled on the 

 water, the fish perceived that there was something 

 which had life and movement, opened his jaws 

 wide, closed them — and in due course weighed one 

 pound three ounces. Without prejudice, he should 

 have weighed a pound and a half, for he was not in 

 good condition. 



Higher up, the backwater gets smaller and smaller 

 till at last it has no obvious existence at all. Its 

 course is absolutely choked with coarse rushes and 

 other vegetation, and most of the little pools are 

 screened with impenetrable bushes and protected 

 by drooping boughs. Yet in some of the clear spots 

 there are trout, and good ones. I used occasionally 

 to get one here and there at the expense of scratches 

 from thorns, stings from nettles, an aching back, 

 and very undignified attitudes. 



It was not bad fun but it was laborious, so one 

 day early in June I decided to make the place 

 fishable, and put in some perspiring hours with a 



